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THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS 
RIVER  RANCH 


The  Story  of  the 
Foss  River  Ranch 

A  Tale  of  the  Northwest 
By  RIDGWELL  CULLUM 

f| 

AUTHOR  OF 

"The  I<aw  Breakers,"     "The  Way  of  the  Strong," 
' 'The  Watchers  of  the  Plains."     Etc. 


A.   L.   BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  Arrangement  with  THE  PAGE  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1903, 
BY  THE  PAGE  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  August,  1963 


TO  MY  WIFE 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I    THE  POLO  CLUB  BALL 1 

II    THE  BLIZZARD:  ITS  CONSEQUENCES 12 

III  A  BIG  GAME  OP  POKER 24 

IV  Ax  THE  Foss  RIVER  RANCH 32 

V    THE  "  STRAY  "  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG 45 

VI    "WAYS  THAT  ARE  DARK" 56 

VII    ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG 64 

VIII    TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW 76 

IX    LABLACHE'S  "  COUP  " 88 

X    "AUNT"  MARGARET  REFLECTS 96 

XI    THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS 110 

XII    LABLACHE  FORCES  THE  FIGHT 120 

XIII  THE  FIRST  CHECK 128 

XIV  THE  HUE  AND  CRY 138 

XV    AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS 150 

XVI    GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION 163 

XVII    THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY 176 

XVIII    THE  PUSKY 188 

XIX    LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR 200 

XX    A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR 210 

XXI  HORROCKS  LEARNS  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  MUSKEG     .     .  219 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGI 

XXII    THE  DAY  AFTER 230 

XXIII  THE  PAW  OF  THE  CAT 243 

XXIV  " POKER"  JOHN  ACCEPTS 253 

XXV    UNCLE  AND  NIECE 261 

XXVI    IN  WHICH  MATTERS  REACH  A  CLIMAX 270 

XXVII    THE  LAST  GAMBLE 279 

XXVIII    SETTLING  THE  RECKONING 287 

XXIX  THE  MAW  OF  THE  MUSKEG                                        .  297 


THE  STORY  OF 
THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   POLO   CLUB   BALL 

IT  was  a  brilliant  gathering  —  brilliant  in  every  sense  of 
the  word.  The  hall  was  a  great  effort  of  the  decorator's 
art;  the  people  were  faultlessly  dressed;  the  faces  were 
strong,  handsome  —  fair  or  dark  complexioned  as  the  case 
might  be;  those  present  represented  the  wealth  and  fashion 
of  the  Western  Canadian  ranching  world.  Intellectually, 
too,  there  was  no  more  fault  to  find  here  than  is  usual  in  a 
ballroom  in  the  West  End  of  London. 

It  was  the  annual  ball  of  the  Polo  Club,  and  that  was  a 
social  function  of  the  first  water  —  in  the  eyes  of  the  Calford 
world. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Abbot,  it  is  a  matter  which  is  quite 
out  of  my  province,"  said  John  Allandale,  in  answer  to 
a  remark  from  his  companion.  He  was  leaning  over  the 
cushioned  back  of  the  Chesterfield  upon  which  an  old  lady 
was  seated,  and  gazing  smilingly  over  at  a  group  of  young 
people  standing  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room.  "  Jacky 
is  one  of  those  young  ladies  whose  strength  of  character 
carries  her  beyond  the  control  of  mere  man.  Yes,  I  know 
what  you  would  say,"  as  Mrs.  Abbot  glanced  up  into  his 
face  with  a  look  of  mildly-expressed  wonder;  "  it  is  true  I 
am  her  uncle  and  guardian,  but,  nevertheless,  I  should  no 
more  dream  of  interfering  with  her  —  what  shall  we  say?  — 

i 


2   THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

love  affairs,  than  suggest  her  incapacity  to  *  boss  *  a  *  round 
up  '  worked  by  a  crowd  of  Mexican  greasers." 

"  Then  all  I  can  say  is  that  your  niece  is  a  very  un- 
fortunate girl,"  replied  the  old  lady,  acidly.  "  How  old  is 
she?" 

"  Twenty-two." 

John  Allandale,  or  "  Poker "  John  as  he  was  more 
familiarly  called  by  all  who  knew  him,  was  still  looking 
over  at  the  group,  but  an  expression  had  suddenly  crept 
into  has  eyes  -which  might,  in  a  less  robust-looking  man, 
have  been  taken  for  disquiet  —  even  fear.  His  companion's 
-words  Had  brought  home  to  him  a  partial  realization  of  a 
responsibility  which  was  his. 

"  Twenty-two,"  she  repeated,  "  and  not  a  relative  living 
except  a  good-hearted  but  thoroughly  irresponsible  uncle. 
That  child  is  to  be  pitied,  John." 

The  old  man  sighed.  He  took  no  umbrage  at  his  com- 
panion's brusquely-expressed  estimation  of  himself.  He 
was  still  watching  the  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
His  face  was  clouded,  and  a  keen  observer  might  have 
detected  a  curious  twitching  of  his  bronzed  right  cheek,  just 
beneath  the  eye.  His  eyes  followed  the  movement  of  a 
beautiful  girl  surrounded  by  a  cluster  of  men,  immaculately 
dressed,  bronzed  —  and,  for  the  most  part,  wholesome- 
looking.  She  was  dark,  almost  Eastern  in  her  type  of 
features.  Her  hair  was  black  with  the  blackness  of  the 
raven's  wing,  and  coiled  in  an  ample  knot  low  upon  her 
neck.  Her  features,  although  Eastern,  had  scarcely  the 
regularity  one  expects  in  such  a  type,  whilst  her  eyes 
quashed  without  mercy  any  idea  of  such  extraction  for  her 
nationality.  They  were  gray,  deeply  ringed  at  the  pupil 
with  black.  They  were  keen  eyes  —  fathomless  in  their  sug- 
gestion of  strength  —  eyes  which  might  easily  mask  a  world 
of  good  or  evil. 

The  music  began,  and  the  girl  passed  from  amidst  her 
group  of  admirers  upon  the  arm  of  a  tall,  fair  man,  and  was 
soon  lost  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  of  dancers. 


THE  POLO  CLUB  BALL  3 

"Who  is  that  she  is  dancing  with  now?"  asked  Mrs. 
Abbot,  presently.  "  I  didn't  see  her  go  off;  I  was  watching 
Mr.  Lablache  standing  alone  and  disconsolate  over  there 
against  the  door.  He  looks  as  if  some  one  had  done  him 
some  terrible  injury.  See  how  he  is  glaring  at  the  danc- 
ers." 

"  Jacky  is  dancing  with  *  Lord  '  Bill.  Yes,  you  are  right, 
Lablache  does  not  look  very  amiable.  I  think  this  would 
be  a  good  opportunity  to  suggest  a  little  gamble  in  the 
smoking-room. " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  snapped  Mrs.  Abbot,  with  the 
assurance  of  an  old  friend.  "  I  haven't  half  finished  talk- 
ing to  you  yet.  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing  that  all 
you  people  of  the  prairie  love  to  call  each  other  by  nick- 
names. Why  should  the  Hon.  William  Bunning-Ford  be 
dubbed  *  Lord '  Bill,  and  why  should  that  sweet  niece  of 
yours,  who  is  the  possessor  of  such  a  charming  name  as 
Joaquina,  be  hailed  by  every  man  within  one  hundred  miles 
of  Calford  as  '  Jacky '  ?  I  think  it  is  both  absurd  and  — 
vulgar." 

"Possibly  you  are  right,  my  dear  lady.  But  you  can 
never  alter  the  ways  of  the  prairie.  You  might  just  as  well 
try  to  stem  the  stream  of  our  Foss  River  in  early  spring  as 
try  to  make  the  prairie  man  call  people  by  their  legitimate 
names.  For  instance,  do  you  ever  hear  me  spoken  of  by 
any  other  name  than  *  Poker '  John?  " 

Mrs.  Abbot  looked  up  sharply.  A  malicious  twinkle  was 
in  her  eyes. 

"  There  is  reason  in  your  sobriquet,  John.  A  man  who 
spends  his  substance  and  time  in  playing  that  fascinating 
but  degrading  game  called  '  Draw  Poker J  deserves  no  better 
title." 

John  Allandale  made  a  "  clucking "  sound  with  his 
tongue.  It  was  his  way  of  expressing  irritation.  Then  he 
stood  erect,  and  glanced  round  the  room  in  search  of  some 
one.  He  was  a  tall,  well-built  man  and  carried  his  fifty 
odd  years  fairly  well,  in  spite  of  his  gray  hair  and  the  bald 


4   THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

patch  at  the  crown  of  his  head.  Thirty  years  of  a  rancher's 
life  had  in  no  way  lessened  the  easy  carriage  and  dis- 
tinguished bearing  acquired  during  his  upbringing.  John 
Allandale's  face  and  figure  were  redolent  of  the  free  life  of 
the  prairie.  And  although,  possibly,  his  fifty-five  years 
might  have  lain  more  easily  upon  him  he  was  a  man  of  com- 
manding appearance  and  one  not  to  be  passed  unnoticed. 

Mrs.  Abbot  was  the  wife  of  the  doctor  of  the  Foss  River 
Settlement  and  had  known  John  Allandale  from  the  first 
day  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  on  the  land  which  after- 
wards became  known  as  the  Foss  River  Ranch  until  now, 
when  he  was  acknowledged  to  be  a  power  in  the  stock- 
raising  world.  She  was  a  woman  of  sound,  practical, 
common  sense;  he  was  a  man  of  action  rather  than  a 
thinker;  she  was  a  woman  whose  moral  guide  was  an 
invincible  sense  of  duty;  he  was  a  man  whose  sense  of 
responsibility  and  duty  was  entirely  governed  by  an  un- 
reliable inclination.  Moreover,  he  was  obstinate  without 
being  possessed  of  great  strength  of  will.  They  were  char- 
acters utterly  opposed  to  one  another,  and  yet  they  were  the 
greatest  of  friends. 

The  music  had  ceased  again  and  once  more  the  walls 
were  lined  with  heated  dancers,  breathing  hard  and  fanning 
themselves.  Suddenly  John  Allandale  saw  a  face  he  was 
looking  for.  Murmuring  an  excuse  to  Mrs.  Abbot,  he  strode 
across  the  room,  just  as  his  niece,  leaning  upon  the  arm 
of  the  Hon.  Bunning-Ford,  approached  where  he  had  been 
standing. 

Mrs.  Abbot  glanced  admiringly  up  into  Jacky's  face. 

"  A  successful  evening,  Joaquina  ? "  she  interrogated 
kindly. 

"Lovely,  Aunt  Margaret,  thanks."  She  always  called 
the  doctor's  wife  "  Aunt" 

Mrs.  Abbot  nodded. 

"  I  believe  you  have  danced  every  dance.  You  must  be 
tired,  child.  Come  and  sit  down." 

Jacky  was  intensely  fond  of  this  old  lady  and  looked 


THE  POLO  CLUB  BALL  5 

upon  her  almost  as  a  mother.  Her  affection  was  recipro- 
cated. The  girl  seated  herself  and  "Lord"  Bill  stood  over 
her,  fan  in  hand. 

"  Say,  auntie,"  exclaimed  Jacky,  "  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  dance  every  dance  on  the  program.  And  I  guess  I  sha'n't 
waste  time  on  feeding." 

The  girl's  beautiful  face  was  aglow  with  excitement 
Mrs.  Abbot's  face  indicated  horrified  amazement. 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  —  don't  talk  like  that.  It  is  really 
dreadful." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  smiled. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  auntie,  I  forgot,"  the  girl  replied,  with 
an  irresistible  smile.  "  I  never  can  get  away  from  the 
prairie.  Do  you  know,  this  evening  old  Lablache  made  me 
mad,  and  my  hand  went  round  to  my  hip  to  get  a  grip  on 
my  six-shooter,  and  I  was  quite  disappointed  to  feel  nothing 
but  smooth  silk  to  my  touch.  I'm  not  fit  for  town  life,  I 
guess.  I'm  a  prairie  girl;  you  can  bet  your  life  on  it,  and 
nothing  will  civilize  me.  Billy,  do  stop  wagging  that 
fan." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  smiled  a  slow,  twinkling  smile  and  desisted. 
He  was  a  tall,  slight  man,  with  a  faint  stoop  at  the  shoul- 
ders. He  looked  worthy  of  his  title. 

"  It  is  no  use  trying  to  treat  Jacky  to  a  becoming  ap- 
preciation of  social  requirements,"  he  said,  addressing  him- 
self with  a  sort  of  weary  deliberation  to  Mrs.  Abbot.  "  I 
suggested  an  ice  just  now.  She  said  she  got  plenty  on 
the  ranch  at  this  time  of  year,"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  Well,  of  course.  What  does  one  want  ices  for?  "  asked 
the  girl,  disdainfully.  "  I  came  here  to  dance.  But,  auntie, 
dear,  where  has  uncle  gone?  He  dashed  off  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  us  when  we  came  up." 

"  I  think  he  has  set  his  mind  on  a  game  at  poker,  dear, 
and—" 

"  And  that  means  he  has  gone  in  search  of  that  detestable 
man,  Lablache,"  Jacky  put  in  sharply. 


6      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Her  beautiful  face  flushed  with  anger  as  she  spoke.  But 
withal  there  was  a  look  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes. 

"If  he  must  play  cards  I  wish  he  would  play  with  some 
one  else,"  she  pursued. 

"  Lord "  Bill  glanced  round  the  room.  He  saw  that 
Lablache  had  disappeared. 

"Well,  you  see,  Lablache  has  taken  a  lot  of  money  out 
of  all  of  us.  Naturally  we  wish  to  get  it  back,"  he  said 
quietly,  as  if  in  defense  of  her  uncle's  doings. 

"Yes,  I  know.  And-— do  you?"  The  girl's  tone  was 
cutting. 

"  Lord  "  Bill  shrugged.     Then,— 

"  As  yet  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure." 

"  And  if  I  know  anything  of  Lablache  you  never  will," 
put  in  Mrs.  Abbot,  curtly.  "  He  is  not  given  to  parting 
easily.  The  qualification  most  necessary  amongst  gentlemen 
in  the  days  of  our  grandfathers  was  keen  gambling.  You 
and  John,  had  you  lived  in  those  days,  might  have  aspired 
to  thrones." 

"  Yes  —  or  taken  to  the  road.  You  remember,  even  then, 
it  was  necessary  to  be  a  '  gentleman  '  of  the  road." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  laughed  in  his  lazy  fashion.  His  keen  gray 
eyes  were  half  veiled  with  eyelids  which  seemed  too  weary 
to  lift  themselves.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  but  his 
general  air  of  weariness  belied  the  somewhat  eagle  cast  of 
countenance  which  was  his.  Mrs.  Abbot,  watching  him, 
thought  that  the  deplorable  lassitude  which  he  always 
exhibited  masked  a  very  different  nature.  Jacky  possibly 
had  her  own  estimation  of  the  man.  Whatever  it  was, 
her  friendship  for  him  was  not  to  be  doubted,  and,  on  his 
part,  he  never  attempted  to  disguise  his  admiration  of 
her. 

A  woman  is  often  a  much  keener  observer  of  men  than  ?he 
is  given  credit  for.  A  man  is  frequently  disposed  to  judge 
another  man  by  his  mental  talents  and  his  peculiarities  of 
temper  —  or  blatant  self-advertisement.  A  woman's  first 
thought  is  for  that  vague,  but  comprehensive  trait  "  manli- 


THE  POLO  CLUB  BALL  7 

ness."  She  drives  straight  home  for  the  peg  upon  which 
to  hang  her  judgment.  That  is  why  in  feminine  regard 
the  bookworm  goes  to  the  wall  to  make  room  for  the 
athlete.  Possibly  Jacky  and  Mrs.  Abbot  had  probed 
beneath  "  Lord "  Bill's  superficial  weariness  and  discov- 
ered there  a  nature  worthy  of  their  regard.  They  were 
both,  in  their  several  ways,  fond  of  this  scion  of  a  noble 
house. 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  you  good  people  to  sit  there  and 
lecture  —  or,  at  least,  say  '  things/  "  "  Lord  "  Bill  went  on. 
"  A  man  must  have  excitement.  Life  becomes  a  burden  to 
the  man  who  lives  the  humdrum  existence  of  ranch  life. 
For  the  first  few  years  it  is  all  very  well.  He  can  find  a 
certain  excitement  in  learning  the  business.  The  '  round- 
ups '  and  branding  and  re-branding  of  cattle,  these  things 
are  fascinating  —  for  a  time.  Breaking  the  wild  and  woolly 
broncho  is  thrilling  and  he  needs  no  other  tonic;  but  when 
one  has  gone  through  all  this  and  he  finds  that  no  Broncho 
—  or,  for  that  matter,  any  other  horse  —  ever  foaled  cannot 
be  ridden,  it  loses  its  charm  and  becomes  boring.  On  the 
prairie  there  are  only  two  things  left  for  him  to  do  —  drink 
or  gamble.  The  first  is  impossible.  It  is  low,  degrading. 
Besides  it  only  appeals  to  certain  senses,  and  does  not  give 
one  that  *  hair-curling '  thrill  which  makes  life  tolerable. 
Consequently  the  wily  pasteboard  is  brought  forth  —  and 
we  live  again." 

"  Stuff,"  remarked  Mrs.  Abbot,  uncompromisingly. 

"  Bill,  you  make  me  laugh,"  exclaimed  Jacky,  smiling  up 
into  his  face.  "  Your  arguments  are  so  characteristic  of 
you.  I  believe  it  is  nothing  but  sheer  indolence  that  makes 
you  sit  down  night  after  night  and  hand  over  your  dollars 
to  that — that  Lablache.  How  much  have  you  lost  to  him 
this  week?" 

"  Lord  "  Bill  glanced  quizzically  down  at  the  girl. 

"  I  have  purchased  seven  evenings'  excitement  at  a  fairly 
reasonable  price." 

"Which  means?" 


8      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  girl  leant  forward  and  in  her  eyes  was  a  look  of 
anxiety.  She  meant  to  have  the  truth. 

"  I  have  enjoyed  myself." 

"But  the  price?" 

"Ah  —  here  comes  your  partner  for  the  next  dance," 
"  Lord  "  Bill  went  on,  still  smiling.  "  The  band  has  struck 
up." 

At  that  moment  a  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  com- 
plexion speaking  loudly  of  the  prairie,  came  up  to  claim  the 
girl. 

"  Hallo,  Pickles,"  said  Bill,  quietly  turning  upon  the  new- 
comer and  ignoring  Jacky's  question.  "  Thought  you  said 
you  weren't  coming  in  to-night  ?  " 

"Neither  was  I,"  the  man  addressed  as  "Pickles"  re- 
torted, "  but  Miss  Jacky  promised  me  two  dances,"  he  went 
on,  in  strong  Irish  brogue;  "that  settled  it.  How  d'ye  do, 
Mrs.  Abbot?  Come  along,  Miss  Jacky,  we're  losing  half 
our  dance." 

The  girl  took  the  proffered  arm  and  was  about  to  move 
off.  She  turned  and  spoke  to  "  Lord  "  Bill  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

"How  much?" 

Bill  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  deprecating  fashion.  The 
same  gentle  smile  hovered  round  his  sleepy  eyes. 

"  Three  thousand  dollars." 

Jacky  glided  off  into  the  already  dancing  throng. 

For  a  moment  the  Hon.  Bunning-Ford  and  Mrs.  Abbot 
watched  the  girl  as  she  glided  in  and  out  amongst  the 
dancers,  then,  with  a  sigh,  the  old  lady  turned  to  her  com- 
panion. Her  kindly  wrinkled  old  face  wore  a  sad  expres- 
sion and  a  half  tender  look  was  in  her  eyes  as  they  rested 
upon  the  man's  face.  When  she  spoke,  however,  her  tone 
was  purely  conversational. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  dance  ?  " 

"  No,"  abstractedly.     "  I  think  I've  had  enough." 

"  Then  come  and  sit  by  me  and  help  to  cheer  an  old 
woman  up." 


THE  POLO  CLUB  BALL  9 

"  Lord "  Bill  smiled  as  he  seated  himself  upon  the 
lounge. 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  much  necessity  for  my  cheering 
influence,  Aunt  Margaret.  Amongst  your  many  other 
charming  qualities  cheerfulness  is  not  the  least.  Doesn't 
Jacky  look  lovely  to-night?  " 

"  To-night  ?  —  always." 

"  Yes,  of  course  —  but  Jacky  always  seems  to  surpass 
herself  under  excitement.  One  would  scarcely  expect  it, 
knowing  her  as  we  do.  But  she  is  as  wildly  delighted  with 
dancing  as  any  miss  fresh  from  school." 

"  And  why  not  ?  It  is  little  pleasure  that  comes  into  her 
life.  An  orphan  —  barely  twenty-two  —  with  the  entire 
responsibility  of  her  uncle's  ranch  upon  her  shoulders.  Liv- 
ing in  a  very  hornet's  nest  of  blacklegs  and  —  and  — " 

"  Gamblers,"  put  in  the  man,  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  Aunt  Margaret  went  on  defiantly,  "  gamblers. 
With  the  certain  knowledge  that  the  home  she  struggles 
for,  through  no  fault  of  her  own,  is  passing  into  the  hands 
of  a  man  she  hates  and  despises  — " 

"  And  who  by  the  way  is  in  love  with  her."  "  Lord  " 
Bill's  mouth  was  curiously  pursed. 

"  What  pleasure  can  she  have  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abbot, 
vehemently.  "  Sometimes,  much  as  I  am  attached  to  John, 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to — .to  bang  him!  " 

"  Poor  old  John !  "  Bill's  bantering  tone  nettled  the  old 
lady,  but  she  said  no  more.  Her  anger  against  those  she 
loved  could  not  last  long. 

"  *  Poker '  John  loves  his  niece,"  the  man  went  on,  as  his 
companion  remained  silent.  "  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
he  would  not  do  for  her,  if  it  lay  within  his  power." 

"  Then  let  him  leave  poker  alone.  His  gambling  is  break- 
ing her  heart." 

The  angry  light  was  again  in  the  old  lady's  eyes.  Her 
companion  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  His  lips  had 
assumed  that  curious  pursing.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with 
great  decision. 


10     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Impossible,  my  dear  lady  —  utterly  impossible.  Can 
the  Foss  River  help  freezing  in  winter?  Can  Jacky  help 
talking  prairie  slang?  Can  Lablache  help  grubbing  for 
money?  Can  you  help  caring  for  all  of  our  worthless  selves 
who  belong  to  the  Foss  River  Settlement?  Nothing 
can  alter  these  things.  John  would  play  poker  on  the 
lid  of  his  own  coffin,  while  the  undertakers  were  wind- 
ing his  shroud  about  him  —  if  they'd  lend  him  a  pack  of 
cards." 

"  I  believe  you  encourage  him  in  it,"  said  the  old  lady, 
mollified,  but  still  sticking  to  her  guns.  "  There  is  little  to 
choose  between  you." 

The  man  shrugged  his  indolent  shoulders.  This  dear 
old  lady's  loyalty  to  Jacky,  and,  for  that  matter,  to  all  her 
friends,  pleased  while  it  amused  him. 

"Maybe."  Then  abruptly,  "Let's  talk  of  something 
else." 

At  that  moment  an  elderly  man  was  seen  edging  his  way 
through  the  dancers.  He  came  directly  over  to  Mrs.  Ab- 
bot. 

"  It's  getting  late,  Margaret,"  he  said,  pausing  before  her. 
"  I  am  told  it  is  rather  gusty  outside.  The  weather 
prophets  think  we  may  have  a  blizzard  on  us  before  morn- 
ing." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised,"  put  in  the  Hon.  Bun- 
ning-Ford.  "  The  sun-dogs  have  been  showing  for  the  last 
two  days.  I'll  see  what  Jacky  says,  and  then  hunt  out  old 
John." 

"  Yes,  for  goodness*  sake  don't  let  us  get  caught  in  a 
blizzard,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abbot,  fearfully.  "  If  there  is 
one  thing  I'm  afraid  of  it  is  one  of  those  terrible  storms. 
We  have  thirty-five  miles  to  go." 

The  new-comer,  Dr.  Abbot,  smiled  at  his  wife's  terrified 
look,  but,  as  he  turned  to  urge  Bill  to  hurry,  there  was  a 
slightly  anxious  look  on  his  face. 

"  Hurry  up,  old  man.  I'll  go  and  see  about  our  sleigh." 
Then  in  an  undertone,  "  You  can  exaggerate  a  little  to  per- 


THE  POLO  CLUB  BALL  11 

suade  them,  for  the  storm  is  coming  on  and  we  must  get 
away  at  once." 

A  moment  or  two  later  "  Lord "  Bill  and  Jacky  were 
making  their  way  to  the  smoking-room.  On  the  stairs  they 
met  "  Poker  "  John.  He  was  returning  to  the  ball-room. 

"  We  were  just  coming  to  look  for  you,  uncle,"  exclaimed 
Jacky.  "  They  tell  us  it  is  blowing  outside." 

"  Just  what  I  was  coming  to  tell  you,  my  dear.  We  must 
be  going.  Where  are  the  doctor  and  Aunt  Margaret?  " 

"Getting  ready,"  said  Bill,  quietly.  "Have  a  good 
game?" 

The  old  man  smiled.  His  bronzed  face  indicated  ex- 
treme satisfaction. 

"Not  half  bad,  boy  —  not  half  bad.  Relieved  Lablache 
of  five  hundred  dollars  in  the  last  jackpot.  Held  four 
deuces.  He  opened  with  full  on  aces." 

"  Poker  "  John  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  past  heavy 
losses,  and  spoke  gleefully  of  the  paltry  five  hundred  he  had 
just  scooped  in. 

The  girl  looked  relieved,  and  even  the  undemonstrative 
"  Lord  "  Bill  allowed  a  scarcely  audible  sigh  to  escape  him. 
Jacky  returned  at  once  to  the  exigencies  of  the  moment. 

"  Then,  uncle,  dear,  let  us  hurry  up.  I  guess  none  of  us 
want  to  be  caught  in  a  blizzard.  Say,  Bill,  take  me  to  the 
cloak-room,  right  away." 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  BLIZZARD:    ITS  CONSEQUENCES 

ON  the  whole,  Canada  can  boast  of  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect health-giving  climates  in  the  world,  despite  the  two 
extremes  of  heat  and  cold  of  which  it  is  composed.  But 
even  so  the  Canadian  climate  is  cursed  by  an  evil  which 
every  now  and  again  breaks  loose  from  the  bonds  which 
fetter  it,  and  rages  from  east  to  west,  carrying  death  and 
destruction  in  its  wake.  I  speak  of  the  terrible  —  the  raging 
Blizzard! 

To  appreciate  the  panic-like  haste  with  which  the  Foss 
River  Settlement  party  left  the  ballroom,  one  must  have 
lived  a  winter  in  the  west  of  Canada.  The  reader  who  sits 
snugly  by  his  or  her  fireside,  and  who  has  never  experienced 
a  Canadian  winter,  can  have  no  conception  of  one  of  those 
dread  storms,  the  very  name  of  which  had  drawn  words  of 
terror  from  one  who  had  lived  the  greater  part  of  her  life  in 
the  eastern  shadow  of  the  Rockies.  Hers  was  no  timid, 
womanly  fear  for  ordinary  inclemency  of  weather,  but  a 
deep-rooted  dread  of  a  life-and-death  struggle  in  a  merciless 
storm,  than  which,  in  no  part  of  the  world,  can  there  be 
found  a  more  fearful.  Whence  it  comes  —  and  why, 
surely  no  one  may  say.  A  meteorological  expert  may 
endeavor  to  account  for  it,  but  his  argument  is  uncon- 
vincing and  gains  no  credence  from  the  dweller  on  the 
prairies.  And  why?  Because  the  storm  does  not  come 
from  above  —  neither  does  it  come  from  a  specified  direc- 
tion. And  only  in  the  winter  does  such  a  wind  blow.  The 
wind  buffets  from  every  direction  at  once.  No  snow  falls 
from  above  and  yet  a  blinding  gray  wall  of  snow,  swept 
up  from  the  white-clothed  ground,  encompasses  the  dazed 
traveller.  His  arm  outstretched  in  daylight  and  he  cannot 

12 


THE  BLIZZARD:     ITS  CONSEQUENCES        13 

see  the  tips  of  his  heavy  fur  mitts.  Bitter  cold,  a  hundred 
times  intensified  by  the  merciless  force  of  the  wind,  and  he 
is  lost  and  freezing  —  slowly  freezing  to  death. 

As  the  sleigh  dashed  through  the  outskirts  of  Calford,  on 
its  way  to  the  south,  there  was  not  much  doubt  in  the 
minds  of  any  of  its  occupants  as  to  the  prospects  of  the 
storm.  The  gusty,  patchy  wind,  the  sudden  sweeps  of 
hissing,  cutting  snow,  as  it  slithered  up  in  a  gray  dust  in 
the  moonlight,  and  lashed,  with  stinging  force,  into  their 
faces,  was  a  sure  herald  of  the  coming  "  blizzard." 

Bunning-Ford  and  Jacky  occupied  the  front  seat  of  the 
sleigh.  The  former  was  driving  the  spanking  team  of  blacks 
of  which  old  "  Poker  "  John  was  justly  proud.  The  sleigh 
was  open,  as  in  Canada  all  such  sleighs  are.  Mrs.  Abbot 
and  the  doctor  sat  in  a  seat  with  their  backs  to  Jacky  and 
her  companion,  and  old  John  Allandale  faced  the  wind  in 
the  back  seat,  alone.  Thirty-five  miles  the  horses  had  to 
cover  before  the  storm  thoroughly  established  itself,  and 
"  Lord  "  Bill  was  not  a  slow  driver. 

The  figures  of  the  travellers  were  hardly  distinguishable 
so  enwrapped  were  they  in  beaver  caps,  buffalo  coats  and 
robes.  Jacky,  as  she  sat  silently  beside  her  companion, 
might  have  been  taken  for  an  inanimate  bundle  of  furs,  so 
lost  was  she  within  the  ample  folds  of  her  buffalo.  But 
for  the  occasional  turn  of  her  head,  as  she  measured  with 
her  eyes  the  rising  of  the  storm,  she  gave  no  sign  of  life. 

"  Lord "  Bill  seemed  indifferent.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  road  ahead  and  his  hands,  encased  in  fur  mitts, 
were  on  the  "  lines "  with  a  tenacious  grip.  The  horses 
needed  no  urging.  They  were  high-mettled  and  cold.  The 
gushing  quiver  of  their  nostrils,  as  they  drank  in  the  crisp, 
night  air,  had  a  comforting  sound  for  the  occupants  of  the 
sleigh.  Weather  permitting,  those  beautiful  "  blacks " 
would  do  the  distance  in  under  three  hours. 

The  sleigh  bells  jangled  musically  in  response  to  the  high 
steps  of  the  horses  as  they  sped  over  the  hard,  snow-covered 
trail.  They  were  climbing  the  long  slope  which  was  to 


14     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

take  them  out  of  the  valley  wherein  was  Calford  situate. 
Presently  Jack's  face  appeared  from  amidst  the  folds  of  the 
muffler  which  kept  her  storm  collar  fast  round  her  neck  and 
ears. 

"  It's  gaming  on  us,  Billy." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

He  understood  her  remark.  He  knew  she  referred  to  the 
storm.  His  lips  were  curiously  pursed.  A  knack  he  had 
when  stirred  out  of  himself. 

"  We  shan't  do  it." 

The  girl  spoke  with  conviction. 

"  No." 

"  Guess  we'd  better  hit  the  trail  for  Norton's.  Soldier 
Joe'll  be  glad  to  welcome  us." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  did  not  answer.  He  merely  chirruped  at 
the  horses.  The  willing  beasts  increased  their  pace  and 
the  sleigh  sped  along  with  that  intoxicating  smoothness  only 
to  be  felt  when  travelling  with  double  "  bobs  "  on  a  perfect 
trail. 

The  gray  wind  of  the  approaching  blizzard  was  becoming 
fiercer.  The  moon  was  already  enveloped  in  a  dense  haze. 
The  snow  was  driving  like  fine  sand  in  the  faces  of  the 
travellers. 

"  I  think  we'll  give  it  an  hour,  Bill.  After  that  I  guess 
it'll  be  too  thick,"  pursued  the  girl.  "  What  d'you  think, 
can  we  make  Norton's  in  that  time  —  it's  a  good  sixteen 
miles?" 

"  I'll  put  'em  at  it,"  was  her  companion's  curt  response. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  minute.  Then  "Lord"  Bill  bent 
his  head  suddenly  forward.  The  night  was  getting  blacker 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  keep  his  eyes  from 
blinking  under  the  lash  of  the  whipping  snow. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Jacky,  ever  on  the  alert  with  the 
instinct  of  the  prairie. 

"  Some  one  just  ahead  of  us.  The  track  is  badly  broken 
in  places.  Sit  tight,  I'm  going  to  touch  'em  up." 

He  flicked  the  whip  over  the  horses'  backs,  and,  a  mo- 


THE  BLIZZARD:     ITS  CONSEQUENCES        15 

ment  later,  the  sleigh  was  flying  along  at  a  dangerous  pace. 
The  horses  had  broken  into  a  gallop. 

"  Lord  "  Bill  seemed  to  liven  up  under  the  influence  of 
speed.  The  wind  was  howling  now,  and  conversation  was 
impossible,  except  in  short,  jerky  sentences.  They  were 
on  the  high  level  of  the  prairie  and  were  getting  the  full 
benefit  of  the  open  sweep  of  country. 

"Cold?"  Bill  almost  shouted. 

"  No,"  came  the  quiet  response. 

"  Straight,  down-hill  trail.  I'm  going  to  let  'em  have 
their  heads." 

Both  of  these  people  knew  every  inch  of  the  road  they 
were  travelling.  There  was  no  fear  in  their  hearts. 

"  Put  'em  along,  then." 

The  horses  raced  along.  The  deadly  gray  wind  had 
obscured  all  light.  The  lights  of  the  sleigh  alone  showed 
the  tracks.  It  was  a  wild  night  and  every  moment  it  seemed 
to  become  worse.  Suddenly  the  man  spoke  again. 

"  I  wish  we  hadn't  got  the  others  with  us,  Jacky." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  could  put  'em  along  faster,  as  it  is  — "  His 
sentence  remained  unfinished,  the  sleigh  bumped  and  lifted 
on  to  one  runner.  It  was  within  an  ace  of  overturning. 
There  was  no  need  to  finish  his  sentence. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,  Bill.  Don't  take  too  many  chances. 
Ease  'em  up  —  some.  They're  not  as  young  as  we  are  — 
not  the  horses.  The  others." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  laughed.  Jacky  was  so  cool.  The  word 
fear  was  not  in  her  vocabulary.  This  sort  of  a  journey  was 
nothing  new  to  her.  She  had  experienced  it  all  before. 
Possibly,  however,  her  total  lack  of  fear  was  due  to  her 
knowledge  of  the  man  who,  to  use  her  own  way  of  express- 
ing things,  "  was  at  the  business  end  of  the  lines."  "  Lord  " 
Bill  was  at  once  the  finest  and  the  most  fearless  teamster 
for  miles  around.  Under  the  cloak  of  indolent  indifference 
he  concealed  a  spirit  of  fearlessness  and  even  recklessness 
which  few  accredited  to  him. 


16     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

For  some  time  the  two  remained  silent.  The  minutes 
sped  rapidly  and  half  an  hour  passed.  All  about  was  pitch 
black  now.  The  wind  was  tearing  and  shrieking  from  every 
direction  at  once.  The  sleigh  seemed  to  be  the  center  of 
its  attack.  The  blinding  clouds  of  snow,  as  they  swept  up 
from  the  ground,  were  becoming  denser  and  denser  and 
offered  a  fierce  resistance  to  the  racing  horses.  Another  few 
minutes  and  the  two  people  on  the  front  seat  knew  that 
progress  would  be  impossible.  As  it  was,  "  Lord "  Bill 
was  driving  more  by  instinct  than  by  what  he  could  see. 
the  trail  was  obscured,  as  were  all  landmarks.  He  could 
no  longer  see  the  horses'  heads. 

"  We've  passed  the  school-house,"  said  Jacky,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

A  strange  knowledge  or  instinct  is  that  of  the  prairie  man 
or  woman.  Neither  had  seen  the  school-house  or  anything 
to  indicate  it.  And  yet  they  knew  they  had  passed  it. 

"  Half  a  mile  to  Trout  Creek.  Two  miles  to  Norton's. 
Can  you  do  it,  Bill?" 

Quietly  as  the  words  were  spoken,  there  was  a  world  of 
meaning  in  the  question.  To  lose  their  way  now  would  be 
worse,  infinitely,  than  to  lose  oneself  in  one  of  the  sandy 
deserts  of  Africa.  Death  was  in  that  biting  wind  and  in 
the  blinding  snow.  Once  lost,  and,  in  two  or  three  hours, 
all  would  be  over. 

"  Yes,"  came  the  monosyllabic  reply.  "  Lord  "  Bill's  lips 
were  pursed  tightly.  Every  now  and  then  he  dashed  the 
snow  and  breath  icicles  from  his  eyelashes.  The  horses 
were  almost  hidden  from  his  view. 

They  were  descending  a  steep  gradient  and  they  now 
knew  that  they  were  upon  Trout  Creek.  At  the  creek  Bill 
pulled  up.  It  was  the  first  stop  since  leaving  Calford. 
Jacky  and  he  jumped  down.  Each  knew  what  the  other 
was  about  to  do  without  speaking.  Jacky,  reins  in  hand, 
went  round  the  horses;  "Lord"  Bill  was  searching  for  the 
trail  which  turned  off  from  the  main  road  up  the  creek  to 
Norton's.  Presently  he  came  back. 


THE  BLIZZARD:     ITS  CONSEQUENCES       17 

"Animals  all  right?" 

"  Fit  as  fiddles,"  the  girl  replied. 

"  Right  —  jump  up !  " 

There  was  no  assisting  this  girl  to  her  seat.  No  "  by 
your  leave  "  or  European  politeness.  Simply  the  word  of 
one  man  who  knows  his  business  to  another.  Both  were 
on  their  "  native  heath." 

Bill  checked  the  horses'  impetuosity  and  walked  them 
slowly  until  he  came  to  the  turning.  Once  on  the  right  road, 
however,  he  let  them  have  their  heads. 

"  It's  all  right,  Jacky,"  as  the  horses  bounded  forward. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  sleigh  drew  up  at  Norton's,  but 
so  dark  was  it  and  so  dense  the  snow  fog,  that  only  those 
two  keen  watchers  on  the  front  seat  were  able  to  discern 
the  outline  of  the  house. 

"  Poker  "  John  and  the  doctor  assisted  the  old  lady  to 
alight  whilst  Jacky  and  "  Lord  "  Bill  unhitched  the  horses. 
In  spite  of  the  cold  the  sweat  was  pouring  from  the  animals' 
sides.  In  answer  to  a  violent  summons  on  the  storm  door 
a  light  appeared  in  the  window  and  "  soldier  "  Joe  Norton 
opened  the  door. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  in  the  doorway  peering  doubt- 
fully out  into  the  storm.  A  goodly  picture  he  made  as  he 
stood  lantern  in  hand,  his  rugged  old  face  gazing  inquir- 
ingly at  his  visitors. 

"Hurry  up,  Joe,  let  us  in,"  exclaimed  Allandale.  "  We 
are  nearly  frozen  to  death." 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  —  bless  my  soul !  Come  in ! 
Come  in!  "  the  old  man  exclaimed  hastily  as  he  recognized 
John  Allendale's  voice.  "  You  out,  and  on  a  night  like 
this.  Bless  my  soul !  Come  in !  Down,  Husky,  down !  " 
to  a  bob-tail  sheep-dog  which  bounded  forward  and  barked 
savagely. 

"Hold  on,  Joe,"  said  "Poker"  John.  "Let  the  ladies 
go  in,  we  must  see  to  the  horses." 

"  It's  all  right,  uncle,"  said  Jacky,  "  we've  unhitched  'em. 
Bill's  taken  'em  right  away  to  the  stables." 


18     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  whole  party  passed  into  Joe  Norton's  sitting-room, 
where  the  old  farmer  at  once  set  about  kindling,  with  the 
aid  of  some  coal-oil,  a  fire  in  the  great  box-stove.  While  his 
host  was  busy  John  took  the  lantern  and  went  to  "  Lord  " 
Bill's  assistance  in  the  stables. 

The  stove  lighted,  Joe  Norton  turned  to  his  guests. 

"  Bless  me,  and  to  think  of  you,  Mrs.  Abbot,  and  Miss 
Jacky,  too.  I  must  fetch  the  o'd  'ooman.  Hi,  Molly, 
Molly,  bestir  yourself,  old  girl.  Come  on  down,  an'  help 
the  ladies.  They've  come  for  shelter  out  o'  the  blizzard  — 
good  luck  to  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  don't  disturb  her,  Joe,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abbot; 
"  it's  really  too  bad,  at  this  unearthly  hour.  Besides,  we 
shall  be  quite  comfortable  here  by  the  stove." 

"No  doubt  —  no  doubt,"  said  the  old  man,  cheerfully, 
"  but  that's  not  my  way  —  not  my  way.  Any  of  you  froze," 
he  went  on  ungrammatically,  "  'cause  if  so,  out  you  go  and 
thaw  it  out  in  the  snow." 

"  I  guess  there's  no  one  frozen,"  said  Jacky,  smiling  into 
the  old  man's  face.  "We're  too  old  birds  for  that.  Ah, 
here's  Mrs.  Norton." 

Another  warm  greeting  and  the  two  ladies  were  hustled 
off  to  the  only  spare  bedroom  the  Nortons  boasted.  By 
this  time  "Lord"  Bill  and  "Poker"  John  had  returned 
from  the  stables.  While  the  ladies  were  removing  their 
furs,  which  were  sodden  with  the  melting  snow,  the  farmer's 
wife  was  preparing  a  rough  but  ample  meal  of  warm  prov- 
ender in  the  kitchen.  Such  is  hospitality  in  the  Far  North- 
West. 

When  the  supper  was  prepared  the  travellers  sat  down  to 
the  substantial  fare.  None  were  hungry  —  be  it  remem- 
bered that  it  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  —  but  each 
felt  that  some  pretense  in  that  direction  must  be  made,  or 
the  kindly  couple  would  think  their  welcome  was  insuf- 
ficient. 

"  An'  what  made  you  venture  on  the  trail  on  such  a 
night?  "  asked  old  Norton,  as  he  poured  out  a  joram  of 


THE  BLIZZARD:     ITS  CONSEQUENCES        19 

hot  whiskey  for  each  of  the  men.  "A  moral  cert,  you 
wouldn't  strike  Foss  River  in  such  a  storm." 

"  We  thought  it  would  have  held  off  longer,"  said  Dr. 
Abbot.  "  It  was  no  use  getting  cooped  up  in  town  for  two 
or  three  days.  You  know  what  these  blizzards  are.  You 
may  have  to  do  with  us  yourself  during  the  next  forty-eight 
hours." 

"  It's  too  sharp  to  last,  Doc,"  put  in  Jacky,  as  she  helped 
herself  to  some  soup.  Her  face  was  glowing  after  her  ex- 
posure to  the  elements.  She  looked  very  beautiful  and  not 
one  whit  worse  for  the  drive. 

"  Sharp  enough  —  sharp  enough,"  murmured  old  Norton, 
as  if  for  something  to  say. 

"  Sharp  enough  to  bring  some  one  else  to  your  hospita- 
ble abode,  Joe,"  interrupted  "  Lord  "  Bill,  quietly;  "  I  hear 
sleigh  bells.  The  wind's  howling,  but  their  tone  is  famil- 
iar." 

They  were  all  listening  now.  "Poker"  John  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"It's—"  and  he  paused. 

Before  he  could  complete  his  sentence  Jacky  filled  up  the 
missing  words. 

"Lablache  — for  a  dollar." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  that  rough  homely  little 
kitchen.  The  expression  of  the  faces  of  those  around  the 
board  indexed  a  general  thought. 

Lablache,  if  it  were  he,  would  not  receive  the  cordial 
welcome  which  had  been  meted  out  to  the  others.  Norton 
broke  the  silence. 

"Dang  it!  That's  what  I  ses,  dang  it!  You'll  pardon 
me,  ladies,  but  my  feelings  get  the  better  of  me  at  times. 
I  don't  like  him.  Lablache  —  I  hates  him,"  and  he  strode 
out  of  the  room,  his  old  face  aflame  with  annoyance,  to 
discharge  the  hospitable  duties  of  the  prairie. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  Dr.  Abbot  laughed  con- 
strainedly. 

"  Lablache  doesn't  seem  popular  —  here." 


20     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

No  one  answered  his  remark.  Then  "  Poker "  John 
looked  over  at  the  other  men. 

"  We  must  go  and  help  to  put  his  horses  away." 

There  was  no  suggestion  in  his  words,  merely  a  statement 
of  plain  facts.  "  Lord  "  Bill  nodded  and  the  three  men  rose 
and  went  to  the  door. 

As  they  disappeared  Jacky  turned  to  Mrs.  Norton  and 
Aunt  Margaret. 

"  If  that's  Lablache—  I'm  off  to  bed." 

Her  tone  was  one  of  uncompromising  decision.  Mrs. 
Abbot  was  less  assured. 

"  Do  you  think  it  polite  —  wise?  " 

"  Come  along,  aunt.  Never  mind  about  politeness  or 
wisdom.  What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  Norton  ?  " 

"  As  you  like,  Miss  Jacky.     I  must  stay  up,  or  — " 

"  Yes  —  the  men  can  entertain  him." 

Just  then  Lablache's  voice  was  heard  outside.  It  was  a 
peculiar,  guttural,  gasping  voice.  Aunt  Margaret  looked 
doubtfully  from  Jacky  to  Mrs.  Norton.  The  latter  nodded 
smilingly.  Then  following  Jacky's  lead  she  passed  up  the 
staircase  which  led  from  the  kitchen  to  the  rooms  above. 
A  moment  later  the  door  opened  and  Lablache  and  the  other 
men  entered. 

"  They've  gone  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Norton,  in  answer  to 
"  Poker  "  John's  look  of  inquiry. 

"  Tired,  no  doubt,"  put  in  Lablache,  drily. 

"  And  not  without  reason,  I  guess,"  retorted  "  Poker " 
John,  sharply.  He  had  not  failed  to  note  the  other's  tone. 

Lablache  laughed  quietly,  but  his  keen,  restless  eyes  shot 
an  unpleasant  glance  at  the  speaker  from  beneath  their  heavy 
lids. 

He  was  a  burly  man.  In  bulk  he  was  of  much  the  same 
proportions  as  old  John  Allendale.  But  while  John  was 
big  with  the  weight  of  muscle  and  frame,  Lablache  was 
flabby  with  fat.  In  face  he  was  the  antithesis  of  the  other. 
Whilst  "  Poker  "  John  was  the  picture  of  florid  tanning  - 
while  his  face,  although  perhaps  a  trifle  weak  in  its  lower 


THE  BLIZZARD:     ITS  CONSEQUENCES       21 

formation,  was  bold,  honest,  and  redounding  with  kindly 
nature,  Lablache's  was  bilious-looking  and  heavy  with 
obesity.  Whatever  character  was  there,  it  was  lost  in  the 
heavy  folds  of  flesh  with  which  it  was  wreathed.  His  jowl 
was  ponderous,  and  his  little  mouth  was  tightly  compressed, 
while  his  deep-sunken,  bilious  eyes  peered  from  beween 
heavy,  lashless  lids. 

Such  was  Verner  Lablache,  the  wealthiest  man  of  the 
Foss  River  Settlement.  He  owned  a  large  store  in  the  place, 
selling  farming  machinery  to  the  settlers  and  ranchers  about. 
His  business  was  always  done  on  credit,  for  which  he 
charged  exorbitant  rates  of  interest,  accepting  only  first 
mortgages  upon  crops  and  stock  as  security.  Besides  this 
he  represented  several  of  the  Calford  private  banks,  which 
many  people  said  were  really  owned  by  him,  and  there  was 
no  one  more  ready  to  lend  money  —  on  the  best  of  security 
and  the  highest  rate  of  interest  —  than  he.  Should  the  bor- 
rower fail  to  pay,  he  was  always  suavely  ready  to  renew  the 
loan  at  increased  interest  —  provided  the  security  was  sound. 
And,  in  the  end,  every  ounce  of  his  pound  of  flesh,  plus  not 
less  than  fifty  per  cent,  interest,  would  come  back  to  him. 
After  Verner  Lablache  had  done  with  him,  the  unfortunate 
rancher  who  borrowed  generally  disappeared  from  the 
neighborhood.  Sometimes  this  man's  victims  were  never 
heard  of  again.  Sometimes  they  were  discovered  doing  the 
"  chores "  round  some  obscure  farmer's  house.  Anyway, 
ranch,  crops,  stock  —  everything  the  man  ever  had  —  would 
have  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  money-lender,  Lablache. 

Hard-headed  dealer  —  money-grubber  —  as  Lablache 
was,  he  had  a  weakness.  To  look  at  him  —  to  know  him  — 
no  one  would  have  thought  it,  but  he  had.  And  at  least  two 
of  those  present  were  aware  of  his  secret.  He  was  in  love 
with  Jacky.  That  is  to  say,  he  coveted  her  —  desired  her. 
When  Lablache  desired  anything  in  that  little  world  of  his, 
he  generally  secured  it  to  himself,  but,  in  this  matter,  he 
had  hitherto  been  thwarted.  His  desire  had  increased  pro- 
portionately. He  was  annoyed  to  think  that  Jacky  had  re- 


22     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

tired  at  his  coming.  He  was  in  no  way  blind  to  the  reason  of 
her  sudden  departure,  but  beyond  his  first  remark  he  was 
not  the  man  to  advertise  his  chagrin.  He  could  afford  to 
wait. 

"You'll  take  a  bite  o'  supper,  Mr.  Lablache?"  said  old 
Norton,  in  a  tone  of  inquiry. 

"  Supper?  —  no,  thanks,  Norton.  But  if  you've  a  drop  of 
something  hot  I  can  do  with  that." 

"  We've  gener'ly  got  somethin'  o'  that  about,"  replied  the 
old  man.  "  Whiskey  or  rum?  " 

"  WThisky,  man,  whisky.  I've  got  liver  enough  already 
without  touching  rum."  Then  he  turned  to  "  Poker  "  John. 

"  It's  a  devilish  night,  John,  devilish.  I  started  before 
you.  Thought  I  could  make  the  river  in  time.  I  was  com- 
pletely lost  on  the  other  side  of  the  creek.  I  fancy  the 
storm  worked  up  from  that  direction." 

He  lumped  into  a  chair  close  beside  the  stove.  The  others 
had  already  seated  themselves. 

"  We  didn't  chance  it.  Bill  drove  us  straight  here,"  said 
"  Poker  "  John. 

"  Guess  Bill  knew  something  —  he  generally  does,"  as  an 
afterthought. 

"  I  know  a  blizzard  when  I  see  it,"  said  Bunning-Ford, 
indifferently. 

Lablache  sipped  his  whisky.  A  silence  fell  on  that 
gathering  of  refugees.  Mrs.  Norton  had  cleared  the  supper 
things. 

"Well,  if  you  gents'll  excuse  me  I'll  go  back  to  bed. 
Old  Joe'll  look  after  you,"  she  said  abruptly.  "Good- 
night to  you  all." 

She  disappeared  up  the  staircase.  The  men  remained 
silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  They  were  getting  drowsy. 
Suddenly  Lablache  set  his  glass  down  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  Four  o'clock,  gentlemen.  I  suppose,  Joe,  there  are  no 
beds  for  us."  The  old  farmer  shook  his  head.  "  What  say, 
John  —  Doc  —  a  little  game  until  breakfast  ?  " 


THE  BLIZZARD:     ITS  CONSEQUENCES       23 

John  Allendale's  face  lit  up.  His  sobriquet  was  no  idle 
one.  He  lived  for  poker  —  he  loved  it.  And  Lablache 
knew  it.  Old  John  turned  to  the  others.  His  right  cheek 
twitched  as  he  waited  the  decision.  "  Doc  "  Abbot  smiled 
approval;  "Lord"  Bill  shrugged  indifferently.  The  old 
gambler  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  That's  all  right,  then.  The  kitchen  table  is  good  enough 
for  us.  Come  along,  gentlemen." 

"  I'll  slide  off  to  bed,  I  guess,"  said  Norton,  thankful  to 
escape  a  night's  vigil.  "  Good-night,  gentlemen." 

Then  the  remaining  four  sat  down  to  play. 

The  far-reaching  consequences  of  that  game  were 
undreamt  of  by  the  players,  except,  perhaps,  by  Lablache. 
His  story  of  the  reason  of  his  return  to  Norton's  farm  was 
only  partially  true.  He  had  returned  in  the  hopes  of  this 
meeting;  he  had  anticipated  this  game. 


CHAPTER  III 

A    BIG    GAME    OF    POKER 

"  WHAT  about  cards  ?  "  said  Lablache,  as  the  four  men  sat 
down  to  the  table. 

"  Doc  will  oblige,  no  doubt,"  Bunning-Ford  replied 
quietly.  "  He  generally  carries  the  '  pernicious  paste- 
boards '  about  with  him." 

"  The  man  who  travels  in  the  West  without  them,"  said 
Dr.  Abbot,  producing  a  couple  of  new  packs  from  his  pocket, 
"  either  does  not  know  his  country  or  is  a  victim  of  super- 
stition." 

No  one  seemed  inclined  to  refuse  the  doctor's  statement, 
or  enter  into  a  discussion  upon  the  matter.  Instead,  each 
drew  out  a  small  memorandum  block  and  pencil : — a  sure 
indication  of  a  "  big  game." 

"Limit?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

Lablache  shrugged  his  shoulders,  affectionately  shuffling 
the  cards  the  while.  He  kept  his  eyes  averted. 

"  What  do  the  others  say?  " 

There  was  a  challenge  in  Lablache's  tone.  Bunning- 
Ford  flushed  slightly  at  the  cheek-bones.  That  peculiar 
pursing  was  at  his  lips. 

"  Anything  goes  with  me.  The  higher  the  game  the 
greater  the  excitement,"  he  said,  shooting  a  keen  glance  at 
the  pasty  face  of  the  money-lender. 

Old  John  was  irritated.  His  ruddy  face  gleamed  in  the 
light  of  the  lamp.  The  nervous  twitching  of  the  cheek  in- 
dicated his  frame  of  mind.  Lablache  smiled  to  himself 
behind  the  wood  expression  of  his  face. 

"Twenty  dollars  call  for  fifty.  Limit  the  bet  to  three 

24 


A  BIG  GAME  OF  POKER  25 

thousand  dollars.  Is  that  big  enough  for  you,  Lablache? 
Let  us  have  a  regulation  *  ante.'  No  *  straddling/  >! 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "  Poker  "  John  had  pro- 
posed the  biggest  game  they  had  yet  played.  He  would 
have  suggested  no  limit,  but  this  he  knew  would  be  all  in 
favor  of  Lablache,  whose  resources  were  vast. 

John  glanced  over  from  the  money-lender  to  the  doctor. 
The  doctor  and  Bunning-Ford  were  the  most  to  be  con- 
sidered. Their  resources  were  very  limited.  The  old  man 
knew  that  the  doctor  was  one  of  those  careful  players  who 
was  not  likely  to  allow  himself  to  suffer  by  the  height  of 
the  stakes.  There  was  no  bluffing  the  doctor.  "  Lord " 
Bill  was  able  to  take  care  of  himself. 

"  That's  good  enough  for  me,"  said  Bunning-Ford.  "  Let 
it  go  at  that" 

Outwardly  Lablache  was  indifferent;  inwardly  he  ex- 
perienced a  sense  of  supreme  satisfaction  at  the  height  of 
the  stakes. 

The  four  men  relapsed  into  silence  as  they  cut  for  the 
deal.  It  was  an  education  in  the  game  to  observe  each  man 
as  he,  metaphorically  speaking,  donned  his  mask  of  im- 
passive reserve.  As  the  game  progressed  any  one  of  those 
four  men  might  have  been  a  graven  image  as  far  as  the 
expression  of  countenance  went.  No  word  was  spoken 
beyond  "  Raise  you  so  and  so  " — "  See  you  that."  So  keen, 
so  ardent  was  the  game  that  the  stake  might  have  been  one 
of  life  and  death.  No  money  passed.  Just  slips  of  paper; 
and  yet  any  one  of  those  fragments  represented  a  small 
fortune. 

The  first  few  hands  resulted  in  but  desultory  betting. 
Sums  of  money  changed  hands  but  there  was  very  little  in 
it.  Lablache  was  the  principal  loser.  Three  "  pots "  in 
succession  were  taken  by  John  Allandale,  but  their  aggre- 
gate did  not  amount  to  half  the  limit.  A  little  luck  fell 
to  Bunning-Ford.  He  once  raised  Lablache  to  the  limit. 
The  money-lender  "  saw "  him  and  lost.  Bill  promptly 
scooped  in  three  thousand  dollars.  The  doctor  was 


26     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

cautious.  He  had  lost  and  won  nothing.  Then  a  change 
came  over  the  game.  To  use  a  card-player's  expression,  the 
cards  were  beginning  to  "  run." 

"Lord"  Bill  dealt  Lablache  was  upon  his  right  and 
next  to  him  the  doctor. 

The  money-lender  picked  up  his  cards,  and  partially 
opening  them  glanced  keenly  at  the  index  numerals.  His 
stolid  face  remained  unchanged.  The  doctor  glanced  at  his 
and  "  came  in."  "  Poker  "  John  "  came  in."  The  dealer 
remained  out.  The  doctor  drew  two  cards;  "  Poker  "  John, 
one;  Lablache  drew  one.  The  veteran  rancher  held  four 
nines.  "Lord"  Bill  gathered  up  the  "  deadwood,"  and, 
propping  his  face  upon  his  hands,  watched  the  betting. 

It  was  the  doctor's  bet;  he  cautiously  dropped  out.  He 
had  an  inkling  of  the  way  things  were  going.  "  Poker  " 
John  opened  the  ball  with  five  hundred  dollars.  He  had 
a  good  thing  and  he  did  not  want  to  frighten  his  opponent 
by  a  plunge.  He  would  leave  it  to  Lablache  to  start  raising. 
The  money-lender  raised  him  one  thousand.  Old  John 
sniffed  with  the  appreciation  of  an  old  war-horse  at  the 
scent  of  battle.  The  nervous,  twitching  cheek  remained 
unmoved.  The  old  gambler  in  him  rose  uppermost. 

He  leisurely  saw  the  thousand,  and  raised  another  five 
hundred.  Lablache  allowed  his  fishy  eyes  to  flash  in  the 
direction  of  his  opponent.  A  moment  after  he  raised 
another  thousand.  The  gamble  was  becoming  interesting. 
The  two  onlookers  were  consumed  with  the  lust  of  play. 
They  forgot  that  in  the  result  they  would  not  be  partici- 
pants. Old  John's  face  lost  something  of  its  impassivity 
as  he  in  turn  raised  to  the  limit.  Lablache  eased  his  great 
body  in  his  chair.  His  little  mouth  was  very  tightly 
clenched.  His  breathing,  at  times  stertorous,  was  like  the 
breathing  of  an  asthmatical  pig.  He  saw,  and  again  raised 
to  the  limit.  There  was  now  over  twelve  thousand  dollars 
in  the  pool. 

It  was  old  John's  turn.  The  doctor  and  "  Lord  "  Bill 
waited  anxiously.  The  old  rancher  was  reputed  very 


A  BIG  GAME  OF  POKER  27 

wealthy.  They  felt  assured  that  he  would  not  back  down 
after  having  gone  so  far.  In  their  hearts  they  both  wished 
to  see  him  relieve  Lablache  of  a  lot  of  money. 

They  need  have  had  no  fears.  Whatever  his  faults 
"  Poker  "  John  was  a  "  dead  game  sport."  He  dashed  a  slip 
of  paper  into  the  pool.  The  keen  eyes  watching  read  "  four 
thousand  dollars  "  scrawled  upon  it.  He  had  again  raised  to 
the  limit.  It  was  now  Lablache's  turn  to  accept  or  refuse  the 
challenge.  The  onlookers  were  not  so  sure  of  the  money- 
lender. Would  he  accept  or  not? 

A  curious  thought  was  in  the  mind  of  that  monument  of 
flesh.  He  knew  for  certain  that  he  held  the  winning  cards. 
How  he  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  say.  And  yet  he 
hesitated.  Perhaps  he  knew  the  limits  of  John  Allendale's 
resources,  perhaps  he  felt,  for  the  present,  there  was  sufficient 
in  the  pool;  perhaps,  even,  he  had  ulterior  motives.  What- 
ever the  cause,  as  he  passed  a  slip  of  paper  into  the  pool 
merely  seeing  his  opponent,  his  face  gave  no  outward  sign 
of  what  was  passing  in  the  brain  behind  it. 

Old  John  laid  down  his  hand. 

"  Four  nines,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Not  good  enough,"  retorted  Lablache;  "four  kings." 
And  he  spread  his  cards  out  upon  the  table  before  him  and 
swept  up  the  pile  of  papers  which  represented  his  win. 

A  sigh,  as  of  relief  to  pent-up  feelings,  escaped  the  two 
men  who  had  watched  the  gamble.  Old  John  said  not  a 
word  and  his  face  betrayed  no  thought  or  regret  that  might 
have  been  in  his  mind  at  the  loss  of  such  a  large  amount  of 
money.  He  merely  glanced  over  at  the  money-lender. 

"  Your  deal,  Lablache,"  he  said  quietly. 

Lablache  took  the  cards  and  a  fresh  deal  went  round. 
Now  the  game  became  one-sided.  With  that  one  large  pull 
the  money-lender's  luck  seemed  to  have  set  in.  Seemingly 
he  could  do  no  wrong.  If  he  drew  to  "  three  of  a  kind," 
he  invariably  filled;  if  to  a  "pair,"  he  generally  secured  a 
third;  once,  indeed,  he  drew  to  jack,  queen,  king  of  a  suit 
and  completed  a  "  royal  flush."  His  luck  was  phenomenal. 


28     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  other  men's  luck  seemed  "dead  out."  Bunning-Ford 
and  the  doctor  could  get  no  hands  at  all,  and  thus  they  were 
saved  heavy  losses.  Occasionally,  even,  the  doctor  raked 
in  a  few  "  antes."  But  John  Allandale  could  do  nothing 
right  He  was  always  drawing  tolerable  cards  —  just  good 
enough  to  lose  with.  Until,  by  the  time  daylight  came,  he 
had  lost  so  heavily  that  his  two  friends  were  eagerly  seeking 
an  excuse  to  break  up  the  game. 

At  last  "  Lord  "  Bill  effected  this  purpose,  but  at  consider- 
able loss  to  himself.  He  had  a  fairly  good  hand,  but  not, 
as  he  knew,  sufficiently  good  to  win  with.  Lablache  and 
he  were  left  in.  The  money-lender  had  in  one  plunge  raised 
the  bet  to  the  "  limit."  Bill  knew  that  he  ought  to  drop  out, 
but,  instead  of  so  doing,  he  saw  his  opponent.  He  lost  the 
"pot." 

"  Thank  you,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  quietly  rising  from  the 
table,  "my  losses  are  sufficient  for  one  night.  I  have 
finished.  It  is  daylight  and  the  storm  is  *  letting  up  '  some- 
what." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and,  glancing  at  the  staircase,  saw 
Jacky  standing  at  the  top  of  it.  How  long  she  had  been 
standing  there  he  did  not  know.  He  felt  certain,  although 
she  gave  no  sign,  that  she  had  heard  what  he  had  just  said. 

"  Poker  "  John  saw  her  too. 

"  Why,  Jacky,  what  means  this  early  rising?  "  said  the  old 
man  kindly.  "  Too  tired  last  night  to  sleep?  " 

"  No,  uncle.  Guess  I  slept  all  right.  The  wind's  drop- 
ping fast.  I  take  it  it'll  be  blowing  great  guns  again  before 
long.  This  is  our  chance  to  make  the  ranch."  She  had 
been  an  observer  of  the  finish  of  the  game.  She  had  heard 
Bill's  remarks  on  his  loss,  and  yet  not  by  a  single  word  did 
she  betray  her  knowledge.  Inwardly  she  railed  at  herself 
for  having  gone  to  bed.  She  wondered  how  it  had  fared 
with  her  uncle. 

Bunning-Ford  left  the  room.  Somehow  he  felt  that  he 
must  get  away  from  the  steady  gaze  of  those  gray  eyes. 
He  knew  how  Jacky  dreaded,  for  her  uncle's  sake,  the  game 


A  BIG  GAME  OF  POKER  29 

they  had  just  been  playing.  He  wondered,  as  he  went  to 
test  the  weather,  what  she  would  have  thought  had  she 
known  the  stakes,  or  the  extent  of  her  uncle's  losses.  He 
hoped  she  was  not  aware  of  these  facts. 

"  You  look  tired,  Uncle  John,"  said  the  girl,  solicitously, 
as  she  came  down  the  stairs.  She  purposely  ignored 
Lablache.  "  Have  you  had  no  sleep?  " 

"  Poker  "  John  laughed  a  little  uneasily. 

"  Sleep,  child  ?  We  old  birds  of  the  prairie  can  do  with 
very  little  of  that.  It's  only  pretty  faces  that  want  sleep, 
and  I'm  thinking  you  ought  still  to  be  in  your  bed." 

"  Miss  Jacky  is  ever  on  the  alert  to  take  advantage  of  the 
elements,"  put  in  Lablache,  heavily.  "  She  seems  to  under- 
stand these  things  better  than  any  of  us." 

The  girl  was  forced  to  notice  the  money-lender.  She  did 
so  reluctantly,  however. 

"  So  you,  too,  sought  shelter  from  the  storm  beneath  old 
man  Norton's  hospitable  roof.  You  are  dead  right,  Mr. 
Lablache;  we  who  live  on  the  prairie  need  to  be  ever  on  the 
alert.  One  never  knows  what  each  hour  may  bring  forth." 

The  girl  was  still  in  her  ball-dress.  Lablache's  fishy  eyes 
noticed  her  charming  appearance.  The  strong,  beautiful 
face  sent  a  thrill  of  delight  over  him  as  he  watched  it  —  the 
delicate  rounded  shoulders  made  him  suck  in  his  heavy 
breath  like  one  who  anticipates  a  delicate  dish.  Jacky 
turned  from  him  in  plainly-expressed  disgust. 

Her  uncle  was  watching  her  with  a  gaze  half  uneasy  and 
wholly  tender.  She  was  the  delight  of  his  old  age,  the  center 
of  all  his  affections,  this  motherless  child  of  his  dead  brother. 
His  cheek  twitched  painfully  as  he  thought  of  the  huge 
amount  of  his  losings  to  Lablache.  He  shivered  percep- 
tibly as  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  over  to  the  cooking 
stove. 

"  I  believe  you  people  have  let  the  stove  out,"  the  girl  ex- 
claimed, as  she  noted  her  uncle's  movement.  She  had  no 
intention  of  mentioning  the  game  they  had  been  playing. 
She  feared  to  hear  the  facts.  Instinct  told  her  that  her 


30     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

uncle  had  lost  again.  "  Yes,  I  declare  you  have,"  as  she 
knelt  before  the  grate  and  raked  away  at  the  ashes. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  the  money-lender. 

"  Here,  you,  fetch  me  some  wood  and  coal-oil.  Men 
can  never  be  trusted. " 

Jacky  was  no  respecter  of  persons.  When  she  ordered 
there  were  few  men  on  the  prairie  who  would  refuse  to  obey. 
Lablache  heaved  his  great  bulk  from  before  the  table  and 
got  on  to  his  feet.  His  bilious  eyes  were  struggling  to 
smile.  The  effect  was  horrible.  Then  he  moved  across 
the  room  to  where  a  stack  of  kindling  stood. 

"  Hurry  up.  I  guess  if  we  depended  much  on  you  we'd 
freeze." 

And  Lablache,  the  hardest,  most  unscrupulous  man  for 
miles  around,  endeavored  to  obey  with  the  alacrity  of  any 
sheep-dog. 

In  spite  of  himself  John  Allendale  could  not  refrain 
from  smiling  at  the  grotesque  picture  the  monumental 
Lablache  made  as  he  lumbered  towards  the  stack  of  kind- 
ling. 

When  "  Lord  "  Bill  returned  Lablache  was  bending  over 
the  stove  beside  the  girl. 

"  I've  thrown  the  harness  on  the  horses  —  watered  and 
fed  'em,"  he  said,  taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  "  Say, 
Doc,"  turning  to  Abbott,  "  better  rouse  your  good  lady." 

"  She'll  be  down  in  a  tick,"  said  Jacky,  over  her  shoulder. 
"  Here,  doctor,  you  might  get  a  kettle  of  water  —  and  Bill, 
see  if  you  can  find  some  bacon  or  stuff.  And  you,  uncle, 
came  and  sit  by  the  stove  —  you're  cold." 

Strange  is  the  power  and  fascination  of  woman.  A  look 
—  a  glance  —  a  simple  word  and  we  men  hasten  to  minister 
to  her  requirements.  Half  an  hour  ago  and  all  these  men 
were  playing  for  fortunes  —  dealing  in  thousands  of  dollars 
on  the  turn  of  a  card,  the  passion  for  besting  his  neighbor 
uppermost  in  each  man's  mind.  Now  they  were  humbly 
doing  one  girl's  bidding  with  a  zest  unsurpassed  by  the  de- 
votion to  their  recent  gamble. 


A  BIG  GAME  OF  POKER  31 

She  treated  them  indiscriminately.  Old  or  young,  there 
was  no  difference.  Bunning-Ford  she  liked  —  Dr.  Abbot 
she  liked  —  Lablache  she  hated  and  despised,  still  she 
allotted  them  their  tasks  with  perfect  impartiality.  Only  her 
old  uncle  she  treated  differently.  That  dear,  degenerate  old 
man  she  loved  with  an  affection  which  knew  no  bounds. 
He  was  her  all  in  the  world.  Whatever  his  sins  —  what- 
ever his  faults,  she  loved  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT   THE   FOSS   RIVER   RANCH 

SPRING  is  already  upon  the  prairie.  The  fur  coat  has 
already  been  exchanged  for  the  pea-jacket.  No  longer  is 
the  fur  cap  crushed  down  upon  the  head  and  drawn  over 
the  ears  until  little  more  than  the  oval  of  the  face  is  ex- 
posed to  the  elements;  it  is  still  worn  occasionally,  but  now 
it  rests  upon  the  head  with  the  jaunty  cant  of  an  ordinary 
headgear. 

The  rough  coated  broncho  no  longer  stands  "  tucked  up  " 
with  the  cold,  with  its  hind-quarters  towards  the  wind. 
Now  he  stands  grazing  on  the  patches  of  grass  which  the 
melting  snow  has  placed  at  his  disposal.  The  cattle,  too, 
hurry  to  and  fro  as  each  day  extends  their  field  of  fodder. 
When  spring  sets  in  in  the  great  North-West  it  is  with  no 
show  of  reluctance  that  grim  winter  yields  its  claims  and 
makes  way  for  its  gracious  and  all-conquering  foe.  Spring 
is  upon  everything  with  all  the  characteristic  suddenness  of 
the  Canadian  climate.  A  week  —  a  little  seven  days  —  and 
where  all  before  had  been  cheerless  wastes  of  snow  and  ice, 
we  have  the  promise  of  summer  with  us.  The  snow  dis- 
appears as  with  the  sweep  of  a  "  chinook  "  in  winter.  The 
brown,  saturated  grass  is  tinged  with  the  bright  emerald  hue 
of  new-born  pasture.  The  bared  trees  don  that  yellowish 
tinge  which  tells  of  breaking  leaves.  Rivers  begin  to  flow. 
Their  icy  coatings,  melting  in  the  growing  warmth  of  the 
sun,  quickly  returning  once  more  to  their  natural  element. 

With  the  advent  of  spring  comes  a  rush  of  duties  to  those 
whose  interest  are  centered  in  the  breeding  of  cattle.  The 
Foss  River  Settlement  is  already  teeming  with  life.  For 
the  settlement  is  the  center  of  the  great  spring  "  round-up." 

32 


AT  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH  33 

Here  are  assembling  the  "  cow-punchers  "  from  all  the  out- 
lying ranches,  gathering  under  the  command  of  a  captain 
(generally  a  man  elected  for  his  vast  experience  on  the 
prairie)  and  making  their  preparations  to  scour  the  prairie 
east  and  west,  north  and  south,  to  the  very  limits  of  the  far- 
reaching  plains  which  spread  their  rolling  pastures  at  the 
eastern  base  of  the  Rockies.  Every  head  of  cattle  which  is 
found  will  be  brought  into  the  Foss  River  Settlement  and 
thence  will  be  distributed  to  its  lawful  owners.  This  is  but 
the  beginning  of  the  work,  for  the  task  of  branding  calves 
and  re-branding  cattle  whose  brands  have  become  obscured 
during  the  long  winter  months  is  a  process  of  no  small  mag- 
nitude for  those  who  number  their  stocks  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands. 

At  John  Allendale's  ranch  all  is  orderly  bustle.  There 
is  no  confusion.  Under  Jacky's  administration  the  work 
goes  on  with  a  simple  directness  which  would  astonish  the 
uninitiated.  There  are  the  corrals  to  repair  and  to  be  put 
in  order.  Sheds  and  out-buildings  to  be  whitewashed. 
Branding  apparatus  to  be  set  in  working  order,  fencing  to 
be  repaired,  preparations  for  seeding  to  commence;  a  thou- 
sand and  one  things  to  be  seen  to;  and  all  of  which  must  be 
finished  before  the  first  "  bands  "  of  cattle  are  rounded  up 
into  the  settlement. 

It  is  nearly  a  month  since  we  saw  this  daughter  of  the 
prairie  garbed  in  the  latest  mode,  attending  the  Polo  Ball 
at  Calford,  and  widely  different  is  her  appearance  now  from 
what  it  was  at  the  time  of  our  introduction  to  her. 

She  is  returning  from  an  inspection  of  the  wire  fencing 
of  the  home  pastures.  She  is  riding  her  favorite  horse, 
Nigger,  up  the  gentle  slope  which  leads  to  her  uncle's  house. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  woman  of  fashion  about  her  now  — 
and,  perhaps,  it  is  a  matter  not  to  be  regretted. 

She  sits  her  horse  with  the  easy  grace  of  a  childhood's 
experience.  Her  habit,  if  such  it  can  be  called,  is  a 
"  dungaree  "  skirt  of  a  hardly  recognizable  blue,  so  washed 
out  is  it,  surmounted  by  a  beautifully  beaded  buckskin  shirt. 


34     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Loosely  encircling  her  waist,  and  resting  upon  her  hips, 
is  a  cartridge  belt,  upon  which  is  slung  the  holster  of  a 
heavy  revolver,  a  weapon  without  which  she  never  moves 
abroad.  Her  head  is  crowned  by  a  Stetson  hat,  secured  in 
true  prairie  fashion  by  a  strap  which  passes  under  her  hair 
at  the  back,  while  her  beautiful  hair  itself  falls  in  heavy 
ringlets  over  her  shoulders,  and  waves  untrammelled  in  the 
fresh  spring  breeze  as  her  somewhat  unruly  charger  gallops 
up  the  hill  towards  the  ranch. 

The  great  black  horse  was  heading  for  the  stable.  Jacky 
leant  over  to  one  side  and  swung  him  sharply  towards  the 
house.  At  the  veranda  she  pulled  him  up  short  High 
mettled,  headstrong  as  the  animal  was,  he  knew  his  mistress. 
Tricks  which  he  would  often  attempt  to  practice  upon  other 
people  were  useless  here  —  doubtless  she  had  taught  him 
that  such  was  the  case. 

The  girl  sprang,  unaided,  to  the  ground  and  hitched  her 
picket  rope  to  a  tying-post.  For  a  moment  she  stood  on 
the  great  veranda  which  ran  down  the  whole  length  of  the 
house  front.  It  was  a  one-storied,  bungalow-shaped  house, 
built  with  a  high  pitch  to  the  roof  and  entirely  constructed 
of  the  finest  red  pine-wood.  Six  French  windows  opened 
on  to  the  veranda.  The  outlook  was  westerly,  and,  con- 
trary to  the  usual  custom,  the  ranch  buildings  were  not  over- 
looked by  it.  The  corrals  and  stables  were  in  the  back- 
ground. 

She  was  about  to  turn  in  at  one  of  the  windows  when 
she  suddenly  observed  Nigger's  ears  cocked,  and  his  head 
turned  away  towards  the  shimmering  peaks  of  the  distant 
mountains.  The  movement  fixed  her  attention  instantly. 
It  was  the  instinct  of  one  who  lives  in  a  country  where  the 
eyes  and  ears  of  a  horse  are  often  keener  and  more  far-reach- 
ing than  those  of  its  human  masters.  The  horse  was  gazing 
with  statuesque  fixedness  across  a  waste  of  partially-melted 
snow.  A  stretch  of  ten  miles  lay  flat  and  smooth  as  a  bil- 
liard-table at  the  foot  of  the  rise  upon  which  the  house  was 
built.  And  far  out  across  this  the  beast  was  gazing. 


AT  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH  35 

Jacky  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  followed  the 
direction  of  the  horse's  gaze.  For  a  moment  or  two  she 
saw  nothing  but  the  dazzling  glare  of  the  snow  in  the  bright 
spring  sunlight.  Then  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 
brilliancy,  and  far  in  the  distance,  she  beheld  an  animal 
peacefully  moving  along  from  patch  to  patch  of  bare  grass, 
evidently  in  search  of  fodder. 

"  A  horse,"  she  muttered,  under  her  breath.     "  Whose?  " 

She  could  find  no  answer  to  her  monosyllabic  inquiry. 
She  realized  at  once  that  to  whomsoever  it  belonged  its 
owner  would  never  recover  it,  for  it  was  grazing  on  the  far 
side  of  the  great  "  Muskeg,"  that  mighty  bottomless  mire 
which  extends  for  forty  miles  north  and  south  and  whose 
narrowest  breadth  is  a  span  of  ten  miles.  She  was  looking 
across  it  now,  and  innocent  enough  that  level  plain  of  terror 
appeared  at  that  moment.  And  yet  it  was  the  curse  of  the 
ranching  district,  for,  annually,  hundreds  of  cattle  met  an 
untimely  death  in  its  cruel,  absorbing  bosom. 

She  turned  away  for  the  purpose  of  fetching  a  pair  of 
field-glasses.  She  was  anxious  to  indentify  the  horse.  She 
passed  along  the  veranda  towards  the  furthest  window.  It 
was  the  window  of  her  uncle's  office.  Just  as  she  was  near- 
ing  it  she  heard  the  sound  of  voices  coming  from  within. 
She  paused,  and  an  ominous  pucker  drew  her  brows  together. 
Her  beautiful  dark  face  clouded.  She  had  no  wish  to  play 
the  part  of  an  eavesdropper,  but  she  had  recognized  the 
voices  of  her  uncle  and  Lablache.  She  had  also  heard  the 
mention  of  her  own  name.  What  woman,  or,  for  that  mat- 
ter, man,  can  refrain,  from  listening  when  they  hear  two  peo- 
ple talking  about  them.  The  window  was  open;  Jacky 
paused  —  and  listened. 

Lablache's  thick  voice  lolled  heavily  upon  the  brisk  air. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl.  But  don't  you  think  you  are  con- 
sidering her  future  from  a  rather  selfish  point  of  view, 
John?" 

"  Selfish?  "  The  old  man  laughed  in  his  hearty  manner 
"Maybe  you're  right,  though.  I  never  thought  of  that. 


36     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

You  see  I'm  getting  old  now.  I  can't  get  around  like  I 
used  to.  Bless  me,  she's  two-an'-twenty.  Three-and- 
twenty  years  since  my  brother  Dick  —  God  rest  his  soul !  — 
married  that  half-breed  girl,  Josie.  Yes,  I  guess  you're 
right,  she's  bound  to  marry  soon." 

Jacky  smiled  a  curious  dark  smile.  Something  told  her 
why  Lablache  and  her  uncle  were  discussing  her  future. 

"  Why,  of  course  she  is,"  said  Lablache,  "  and  when  that 
happy  event  is  accomplished  I  hope  it  will  not  be  with  any 
improvident  —  harum-scarum  man  like  —  like — " 

"  The  Hon.  Bunning-Ford  I  suppose  you  would  say, 
eh?" 

There  was  a  somewhat  sharp  tone  in  the  old  man's  voice 
which  Jacky  was  not  slow  to  detect. 

"  Well,"  went  on  Lablache,  with  one  of  those  deep  whist- 
ling breaths  which  made  him  so  like  an  ancient  pug,  "  since 
you  mention  him,  for  want  of  a  better  specimen  of  improvi- 
dence, his  name  will  do." 

"So  I  thought  —  so  I  thought,"  laughed  the  old  man. 
But  his  words  rang  strangely.  "  Most  people  think,"  he 
went  on,  "  that  when  I  die  Jacky  will  be  rich.  But  she 
won't." 

"  No,"  replied  Lablache,  emphatically. 

There  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  However,  I  guess  we  can  let  her  hunt  around  for  her- 
self when  she  wants  a  husband.  Jacky's  a  girl  with  a  head. 
A  sight  better  head  than  I've  got  on  my  old  shoulders. 
When  she  chooses  a  husband,  and  comes  and  tells  me  of  it, 
she  shall  have  my  blessing  and  anything  else  I  have  to  give. 
I'm  not  going  to  interfere  with  that  girl's  matrimonial  af- 
fairs, sir,  not  for  any  one.  That  child,  bless  her  heart,  is 
like  my  own  child  to  me.  If  she  wants  the  moon,  and  there's 
nothing  else  to  stop  her  having  it  but  my  consent,  why,  I 
guess  that  moon's  as  good  as  fenced  in  with  triple-barbed 
wire  an*  registered  in  her  name  in  the  Government  Land 
Office." 

"  And  in  the  meantime  you  are  going  to  make  that  same 


AT  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH  37 

child  work  for  her  daily  bread  like  any  'hired  man/  and 
keep  company  with  any  scoun — " 

"Hi,  stop  there,  Lablache!  Stop  there,"  thundered 
"  Poker  "  John,  and  Jacky  heard  a  thud  as  of  a  fist  falling 
upon  the  table.  "  You've  taken  the  unwarrantable  liberty 
of  poking  your  nose  into  my  affairs,  and,  because  of  our  old 
acquaintance,  I  have  allowed  it  But  now  let  me  tell  you 

this  is  no  d d  business  of  yours.  There's  no  make  with 

Jacky.  What  she  does,  she  does  of  her  own  accord." 

At  that  moment  the  girl  in  question  walked  abruptly  in 
from  the  veranda.  She  had  heard  enough. 

"  Ah,  uncle,"  she  said,  smiling  tenderly  up  into  the  old 
man's  face,  "  talking  of  me,  I  guess.  You  shouted  my 
name  just  as  I  was  coming  along.  Say,  I  want  the  field- 
glasses.  Where  are  they  ?" 

Then  she  turned  on  Lablache  as  if  she  had  only  just 
become  aware  of  his  presence. 

"  What,  Mr.  Lablache,  you  here  ?  And  so  early,  too. 
Guess  this  isn't  like  you.  How  is  your  store  —  that  temple 
of  wealth  and  high  interest  —  to  get  on  without  you  ?  How 
are  the  '  improvident '  — '  harum-scarums  '  to  live  if  you  are 
not  present  to  minister  to  their  wants  —  upon  the  best  of 
security?  "  Without  waiting  for  a  reply  the  girl  picked  up 
the  glasses  she  was  in  search  of  and  darted  out,  leaving 
Lablache  glaring  his  bilious-eyed  rage  after  her. 

"  Poker  "  John  stood  for  a  moment  a  picture  of  blank 
surprise;  then  he  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw  at  the  dis- 
comfited money-lender.  Jacky  heard  the  laugh  and  smiled. 
Then  she  passed  out  of  earshot  and  concentrated  her  at- 
tention upon  the  distant  speck  of  animal  life. 

The  girl  stood  for  some  moments  surveying  the  creature 
as  it  moved  leisurely  along,  its  nose  well  down  amongst  the 
roots  of  the  tawny  grass,  seeking  out  the  tender  green  shoots 
of  the  new-born  pasture.  Then  she  closed  her  glasses  and 
her  thoughts  wandered  to  other  matters. 

The  gorgeous  landscape  was,  for  a  moment,  utterly  lost 
upon  her.  The  snowy  peaks  of  the  Rockies,  stretching  far 


38     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

as  the  eye  could  see  away  to  the  north  and  south,  like  some 
giant  fortification  set  up  to  defend  the  rolling  pastures  of 
the  prairies  from  the  ceaseless  attack  of  the  stormy  Pacific 
Ocean,  were  far  from  her  thoughts.  Her  eyes,  it  is  true, 
were  resting  on  the  level  flat  of  the  muskeg,  beyond  the 
grove  of  slender  pines  which  lined  the  approach  to  the 
house,  but  she  was  not  thinking  of  that.  No,  recollection 
was  struggling  back  through  two  years  of  a  busy  life,  to 
a  time  when,  for  a  brief  space,  she  had  watched  over  the 
welfare  of  another  than  her  uncle,  when  the  dark  native 
blood  which  flowed  plentifully  in  her  veins  had  asserted 
itself,  and  a  nature  which  was  hers  had  refused  to  remain 
buried  beneath  a  superficial  European  training.  She  was 
thinking  of  a  man  who  had  formed  a  secret  part  of  her  life 
for  a  few  short  years,  when  she  had  allowed  her  heart  to 
dictate  a  course  for  her  actions  which  no  other  motive  but 
that  of  love  could  have  brought  about.  She  was  thinking 
of  Peter  Retief,  a  pretty  scoundrel,  a  renowned  "  bad  man," 
a  man  of  wild  and  reckless  daring.  He  had  been  the  terror 
of  the  countryside.  A  cattle-thief  who  feared  neither  man 
nor  devil;  a  man  who  for  twelve  months  and  more  had 
carried  his  life  in  his  hands,  the  sworn  enemy  of  law  and 
order,  but  who,  in  his  worst  moments,  had  never  been 
known  to  injure  a  poor  man  or  a  woman.  The  wild  blood 
of  the  half-breed  that  was  in  her  had  been  stirred,  as  only 
a  woman's  blood  can  be,  by  his  reckless  dealings,  his 
courage,  effrontery,  and  withal  his  wondrous  kindliness  of 
disposition.  She  was  thinking  of  this  man  now,  this  man 
whom  she  knew  to  be  numbered  amongst  the  countless  vic- 
tims of  that  dreadful  mire.  And  what  had  conjured  this 
thought  ?  A  horse  —  a  horse  peacefully  grazing  far  out 
across  the  mire  in  the  direction  of  the  distant  hills  which 
she  knew  had  once  been  this  desperado's  home. 

Her  train  of  recollection  suddenly  became  broken,  and 
a  sigh  escaped  her  as  the  sound  of  her  uncle's  voice  fell 
upon  her  ears.  She  did  not  move,  however,  for  she  knew 
that  Lablache  was  with  him,  and  this  man  she  hated  with 


AT  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH  39 

the  fiery  hatred  only  to  be  found  in  the  half-breeds  of  any 
native  race. 

"  I'm  sorry,  John,  we  can't  agree  on  the  point,"  Lablache 
was  saying  in  his  wheezy  voice,  as  the  two  men  stood  at 
the  other  end  of  the  veranda,  "  but  I'm  quite  determined 
upon  the  matter  myself.  The  land  intersects  mine  and  cuts 
me  clean  off  from  the  railway  siding,  and  I  am  forced  to 
take  my  cattle  a  circle  of  nearly  fifteen  miles  to  ship  them. 
If  he  would  only  be  reasonable  and  allow  a  passage  I  would 
say  nothing.  I  will  force  him  to  sell." 

"  If  you  can,"  put  in  the  rancher.  "  I  reckon  you've  got 
chilled  steel  to  deal  with  when  you  endeavor  to  '  force ' 
old  Joe  Norton  to  sell  the  finest  wheat  land  in  the  coun- 
try." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  three  men  came  round 
from  the  back  of  the  house.  They  were  "  cow  "  hands  be- 
longing to  the  ranch.  They  approached  Jacky  with  the 
easy  assurance  of  men  who  were  as  much  companions  as 
servants  of  their  mistress.  All  three,  however,  touched  their 
wide-brimmed  hats  in  unmistakable  respect.  They  were 
clad  in  buckskin  shirts  and  leather  "  chaps,"  and  each  had 
his  revolver  upon  his  hip.  The  girl  lost  the  rest  of  the  con- 
versation between  her  uncle  and  Lablache,  for  her  attention 
was  turned  to  the  men. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  asked  shortly,  as  the  men  stood  before  her. 

One  of  the  men,  a  tall,  lank  specimen  of  the  dark-skinned 
prairie  half-breed,  acted  as  spokesman. 

He  ejected  a  squirt  of  tobacco  juice  from  his  great,  dirty 
mouth  before  he  spoke.  Then  with  a  curious  backward 
jerk  of  the  head  he  blurted  out  a  stream  of  Western 
jargon. 

"  Say,  missie,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  high-pitched  nasal 
voice,  "  it  ain't  no  use  in  talking  ye  kent  put  no  tenderfoot 
t'  boss  the  round-up.  There's  them  all-fired  Donoghue  lot 
jest  sent  right  in  t'  say,  'cause,  I  s'pose,  they  reckon  as 
they're  the  high  muck-i-muck  o'  this  location,  that  that 
tarnation  Sim  Lory,  thar  head  man,  is  to  cap'  the  round-up. 


40     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Why,  he  ain't  cast  a  blamed  foot  on  the  prairie  sence  he's 
been  hyar.  An'  I'll  swear  he  don't  know  the  horn  o'  his 
saddle  from  a  monkey  stick.  Et  ain't  right,  missie,  an'  us 
fellers  t'  work  under  him  an'  all." 

His  address  came  to  an  abrupt  end,  and  he  gave  emphasis 
to  his  words  by  a  prolonged  expectoration.  Jacky,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  anger,  was  quick  to  reply. 

"  Look  you  here,  Silas,  just  go  right  off  and  throw  your 
saddle  on  your  pony — " 

"  Guess  it's  right  thar,  missie,"  the  man  interrupted. 

"  Then  sling  off  as  fast  as  your  plug  can  lay  foot  to  the 
ground,  and  give  John  Allandale's  compliments  to  Jim 
Donoghue  and  say,  if  they  don't  send  a  capable  man,  since 
they've  been  appointed  to  find  the  *  captain/  he'll  complain 
to  the  Association  and  insist  on  the  penalty  being  enforced. 
What,  do  they  take  us  for  a  lot  of  *  gophers '  ?  Sim  Lory, 
indeed;  why,  he's  not  fit  to  prise  weeds  with  a  two  tine  hay 
fork." 

The  men  went  off  hurriedly.  Their  mistress's  swift 
methods  of  dealing  with  matters  pleased  them.  Silas  was 
more  than  pleased  to  be  able  to  get  a  "  slant "  (to  use  his 
own  expression)  at  his  old  enemy,  Sim  Lory.  As  the  men 
departed  "  Poker  "  John  came  and  stood  beside  his  niece. 

"What's  that  about  Sim  Lory,  Jacky?" 

"  They've  sent  him  to  run  this  '  round-up.' >: 

"  And  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  told  them  it  wouldn't  do,"  indifferently. 

Old  John  smiled. 

"In  those  words?" 

"  Well,  no,  uncle,"  the  girl  said  with  a  responsive  smile. 
"  But  they  needed  a  '  jinning '  up.  I  sent  the  message  in 
your  name." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  but  his  indulgent  smile  re- 
mained. 

"  You'll  be  getting  me  into  serious  trouble  with  that  im- 
petuosity of  yours,  Jacky,"  he  said  absently.  "  But  there  — 
I  daresay  you  know  best." 


AT  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH  41 

His  words  were  characteristic  of  him.  He  left  the  en- 
tire control  of  the  ranch  to  this  girl  of  two-and-twenty,  rely- 
ing implicitly  upon  her  judgment  in  all  things.  It  was  a 
strange  thing  to  do,  for  he  was  still  a  vigorous  man.  To 
look  at  him  was  to  make  oneself  wonder  at  the  reason. 
But  the  girl  accepted  the  responsibility  without  question. 
There  was  a  subtle  sympathy  between  uncle  and  niece. 
Sometimes  Jacky  would  gaze  up  into  his  handsome  old  face 
and  something  in  the  twitching  cheek,  the  curiously-shaped 
mouth,  hidden  beneath  the  gray  mustache,  would  cause 
her  to  turn  away  with  a  sigh,  and,  with  stimulated  resolu- 
tion, hurl  herself  into  the  arduous  labors  of  managing  the 
ranch.  What  she  read  in  that  dear,  honest  face  she  loved 
so  well  she  kept  locked  in  her  own  secret  heart,  and  never, 
by  word  or  act,  did  she  allow  herself  to  betray  it.  She  was 
absolute  mistress  of  the  Foss  River  Ranch  and  she  knew 
it.  Old  "  Poker  "  John,  like  the  morphine  "  fiend,"  merely 
continued  to  keep  up  his  reputation  and  the  more  fully 
deserve  his  sobriquet.  His  mind,  his  character,  his  whole 
being  was  being  slowly  but  surely  absorbed  in  the  lust  of 
gambling. 

The  girl  laid  her  hand  upon  the  old  man's  arm. 

"Uncle  —  what  was  Lablache  talking  to  you  about?  I 
mean  when  I  came  for  the  field-glasses." 

"  Poker "  John  was  gazing  abstractedly  into  the  dense 
growth  of  pines  which  fringed  the  house.  He  pulled 
himself  together,  but  his  eyes  had  in  them  a  far-away 
look. 

"  Many  things,"  he  replied  evasively. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dear,  but,"  bending  her  face  while  she 
removed  one  of  her  buckskin  gauntlets  from  her  hand, 
"  I  mean  about  me.  You  two  were  discussing  me,  I 
know." 

She  turned  her  keen  gray  eyes  upon  her  relative  as  she 
finished  speaking.  The  old  man  turned  away.  He  felt 
that  those  eyes  were  reading  his  very  soul.  They  made  him 
uncomfortable. 


42     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Oh,  he  said  I  ought  not  to  let  you  associate  with  certain 
people." 

"Why?"  The  sharp  question  came  with  the  directness 
of  a  pistol-shot. 

"  Well,  he  seemed  to  think  that  you  might  think  of  marry- 
ing." 

"Ah,  and—" 

"He  seemed  to  fancy  that  you,  being  impetuous,  might 
make  a  mistake  and  fall — " 

"  In  love  with  the  wrong  man.  Yes,  I  understand;  and 
from  his  point  of  view,  if  ever  I  do  marry  it  will  undoubtedly 
be  the  wrong  man." 

And  the  girl  finished  up  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 

They  stood  for  some  moments  in  silence.  They  were 
both  thinking.  The  noise  from  the  corrals  behind  the  house 
reached  them.  The  steady  drip,  drip  of  the  water  from  the 
melting  snow  upon  the  roof  of  the  house  sounded  loudly  as 
it  fell  on  the  sodden  ground  beneath. 

"  Uncle,  did  it  ever  strike  you  that  that  greasy  money- 
lender wants  to  marry  me  himself  ?  " 

The  question  startled  John  Allandale  more  than  any- 
thing else  could  have  done.  He  turned  sharply  round  and 
faced  his  niece. 

"Marry  you,  Jacky?  "  he  repeated.  "I  never  thought 
of  it." 

"  It  isn't  to  be  supposed  that  you  would  have  done  so." 

There  was  the  faintest  tinge  of  bitterness  in  the  girl's 
answer. 

"  And  do  you  really  think  that  he  wants  to  marry 
you?" 

"  I  don't  know  quite.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,  uncle,  and 
my  imagination  has  run  away  with  me.  Yes,  I  sometimes 
think  he  wants  to  marry  me." 

They  both  relapsed  into  silence.  Then  her  uncle  spoke 
again. 

"  Jacky,  what  you  have  just  said  has  made  something 
plain  to  me  which  I  could  not  understand  before.  He 


AT  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH  43 

came  and  gave  me  —  unsolicited,  mind — "  a  little  eagerly, 
"  a  detailed  account  of  "Running-Ford's  circumstances, 
and—" 

"  Endeavored  to  bully  you  into  sending  him  about  his 
business.  Poor  old  Bill!  And  what  was  his  account  of 
him?" 

The  girl's  eyes  were  glowing  with  quickly-roused  passion, 
but  she  kept  them  turned  from  her  uncle's  face. 

"  He  told  me  that  the  boy  had  heavy  mortgages  on  his 
land  and  stock.  He  told  me  that  if  he  were  to  realize 
to-morrow  there  would  be  little  or  nothing  for  himself. 
Everything  would  go  to  some  firm  in  Calford.  In  short, 
that  he  has  gambled  his  ranch  away." 

"And  he  told  this  to  you,  uncle,  dear."  Then  the  girl 
paused  and  looked  far  out  across  the  great  muskeg.  In  her 
abrupt  fashion  she  turned  again  to  the  old  man.  "  Uncle," 
she  went  on,  "tell  me  truly,  do  you  owe  anything  to  La- 
blache?  Has  he  any  hold  upon  you?  " 

There  was  a  world  of  anxiety  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 
John  Allandale  tried  to  follow  her  thought  before  he  an- 
swered. He  seemed  to  grasp  something  of  her  meaning, 
for  in  a  moment  his  eyes  took  on  an  expression  of  pain. 
Then  his  words  came  slowly,  as  from  one  who  is  not  sure 
of  what  he  is  saying. 

"  I  owe  him  some  —  money  —  yes  —  but  — " 

"Poker?" 

The  question  was  jerked  viciously  from  the  girl's  lips. 

"  Yes." 

Jacky  turned  slowly  away  until  her  eyes  rested  upon  the 
distant,  grazing  horse.  A  strange  restlessness  seemed  to  be 
upon  her.  She  was  fidgeting  with  the  gauntlet  which  she 
had  just  removed.  Then  slowly  her  right  hand  passed 
round  to  her  hip,  where  it  rested  upon  the  butt  of  her  re- 
volver. There  was  a  tight  drawnness  about  her  lips  and  her 
keen  gray  eyes  looked  as  though  gazing  into  space. 

"How  much?"  she  said  at  last,  breaking  the  heavy 
silence  which  had  followed  upon  her  uncle's  admission. 


44      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Then  before  he  could  answer  she  went  on  deliberately:  "  But 
there — I  guess  it  don't  cut  any  figure.  Lablache  shall  be 
paid,  and  I  take  it  his  bill  of  interest  won't  amount  to  more 
than  we  can  pay  if  we're  put  to  it.  Poor  old  Bill!  " 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  "STRAY"  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG 

THE  Foss  River  Settlement  nestles  in  one  of  those  shallow 
hollows  —  scarcely  a  valley  and  which  yet  must  be  desig- 
nated by  such  a  term  —  in  which  the  Canadian  North- West 
abounds. 

We  are  speaking  now  of  the  wilder  and  less-inhabited 
parts  of  the  great  country,  where  grain-growing  is  only 
incidental,  and  the  prevailing  industry  is  stock-raising. 
Where  the  land  gradually  rises  towards  the  maze-like  foot- 
hills before  the  mighty  crags  of  the  Rockies  themselves  be 
reached.  A  part  where  yet  is  to  be  heard  of  the  romantic 
crimes  of  the  cattle-raiders;  a  part  to  where  civilization  has 
already  turned  its  face,  but  where  civilizaton  has  yet  to 
mature.  In  such  a  country  is  situate  the  Foss  River  Set- 
tlement. 

The  settlement  itself  is  like  dozens  of  others  of  its  kind. 
There  is  the  school-house,  standing  by  itself,  apart  from 
other  buildings,  as  if  in  proud  distinction  for  its  classic 
vocation.  There  is  the  church,  or  rather  chapel,  where  every 
denomination  holds  its  services.  A  saloon,  where  four  per 
cent,  beer  and  prohibition  whiskey  of  the  worst  description 
is  openly  sold  over  the  bar;  where  you  can  buy  poker 
"  chips  "  to  any  amount,  and  can  sit  down  and  play  from 
daylight  till  dark,  from  dark  to  daylight.  A  blacksmith  and 
wheelwright;  a  baker;  a  carpenter;  a  doctor  who  is  also  a 
druggist;  a  store  where  one  can  buy  every  article  of  dry 
goods  at  exorbitant  prices  —  and  on  credit;  and  then,  besides 
all  this,  well  beyond  the  township  limit  there  is  a  half- 
breed  settlement,  a  place  which  even  to  this  day  is  a  neces- 

45 


46     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

sary  evil  and  a  constant  thorn  in  the  side  of  that  smart, 
efficient  force  —  the  North- West  Mounted  Police. 

Lablache's  store  stands  in  the  center  of  the  settlement, 
facing  on  to  the  market-place  —  the  latter  a  vague,  unde- 
fined space  of  waste  ground  on  which  vendors  of  produce 
are  wont  to  draw  up  their  wagons.  The  store  is  a  massive 
building  of  great  extent  Its  proportions  rise  superior  to  its 
surroundings,  as  if  to  indicate  in  a  measure  its  owner's 
worldly  status  in  the  district  It  is  built  entirely  of  stone, 
and  roofed  with  slate  —  the  only  building  of  such  construc- 
tion in  the  settlement 

A  wonderful  center  of  business  is  Lablache's  store  —  the 
chief  one  for  a  radius  of  fifty  miles.  Nearly  the  whole 
building  is  given  up  to  the  stocking  of  goods,  and  only  at 
the  back  of  the  building  is  to  be  found  a  small  office  ^  rhich 
answers  the  multifarious  purposes  of  office,  parlor,  di. ring- 
room,  smoking-room  —  in  short,  every  necessity  of  its  owner, 
except  bedroom,  which  occupies  a  mere  recess  partitioned 
off  by  thin  matchwood  boarding. 

Wealthy  as  Lablache  was  known  to  be  he  spent  little  or 
no  money  upon  himself  beyond  just  sufficient  to  purchase 
the  bare  necessities  of  life.  He  had  few  requirements  which 
could  not  be  satisfied  under  the  headings  of  tobacco  and 
food  —  both  of  which  he  indulged  himself  freely.  The 
saloon  provided  the  latter,  and  as  for  the  former,  trade  price 
was  best  suited  to  his  inclinations,  and  so  he  drew  upon  his 
stock.  He  was  a  curious  man,  was  Verner  Lablache  —  a 
man  who  understood  the  golden  value  of  silence.  He  never 
even  spoke  of  his  nationality.  Foss  River  was  content  to 
call  him  curious  —  some  people  preferred  other  words  to 
express  their  opinion. 

Lablache  had  known  John  Allandale  for  years.  Who,  in 
Foss  River,  had  he  not  known  for  years?  Lablache  would 
have  liked  to  call  old  John  his  friend,  but  somehow 
"  Poker  "  John  had  never  responded  to  the  money-lender's 
advances.  Lablache  showed  no  resentment.  If  he  cared 
at  all  he  was  careful  to  keep  his  feelings  hidden.  One  thing 


THE  "  STRAY  "  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG       47 

is  certain,  however,  he  allowed  himself  to  think  long  and 
often  of  old  John  —  and  his  household.  Often,  when  in  the 
deepest  stress  of  his  far-reaching  work,  he  would  heave  his 
great  bulk  back  in  his  chair  and  allow  those  fishy,  lashless, 
sphinx-like  eyes  of  his  to  gaze  out  of  his  window  in  the 
direction  of  the  Foss  River  Ranch.  His  window  faced  in 
the  direction  of  John's  house,  which  was  plainly  visible  on 
the  slope  which  bounded  the  southern  side  of  the  settle- 
ment. 

And  so  it  came  about  a  few  days  later,  in  one  of  these 
digressions  of  thought,  that  the  money-lender,  gazing  out 
towards  the  ranch,  beheld  a  horseman  riding  slowly  up  to 
the  veranda  of  the  Allandale's  house.  There  was  nothing 
uncommon  in  the  incident,  but  the  sight  riveted  his  atten- 
tion, and  an  evil  light  came  into  his  usually  expressionless 
eyes.  He  recognized  the  horseman  as  the  Hon.  Bunning- 
Ford. 

Lablache  swung  round  on  his  revolving  chair,  and,  in 
doing  so,  kicked  over  a  paper-basket.  The  rapidity  of  his 
movement  was  hardly  to  be  expected  in  one  of  his  bulk. 
His  thin  eyebrows  drew  together  in  an  ugly  frown. 

"What  does  he  want?"  he  muttered,  under  his  heavy 
breath. 

He  hazarded  no  answer  to  his  own  question.  It  was 
answered  for  him.  He  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  step 
out  on  to  the  veranda. 

The  money-lender  rose  swiftly  to  his  feet  and  took  a  pair 
of  field-glasses  from  their  case.  Adjusting  them  he  gazed 
long  and  earnestly  at  the  house  on  the  hill. 

Jacky  was  talking  to  "  Lord  "  Bill.  She  was  habited  in 
her  dungaree  skirt  and  buckskin  bodice.  Presently  Bill 
dismounted  and  passed  into  the  house. 

Lablache  shut  his  glasses  with  a  snap  and  turned  away 
from  the  window.  For  some  time  he  stood  gazing  straight 
before  him  and  a  swift  torrent  of  thought  flowed  through 
his  active  brain.  Then,  with  the  directness  of  one  whose 
mind  is  made  up,  he  went  over  to  a  small  safe  which  stood 


48      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

in  a  corner  of  the  room.  From  this  he  took  an  account 
book.  The  cover  bore  the  legend  "Private."  He  laid  it 
upon  the  table,  and,  for  some  moments,  bent  over  it  as  he 
scanned  its  pages. 

He  paused  at  an  account  headed  John  Allendale.  The 
figures  of  this  account  were  very  large,  totalling  into  six 
figures.  The  balance  against  the  rancher  was  enormous. 
Lablache  gave  a  satisfied  grunt  as  he  turned  over  to  another 
account. 

"Safe  —  safe  enough.  Safe  as  the  Day  of  Doom,"  he  said 
slowly.  His  mouth  worked  with  a  cruel  smile. 

He  paused  at  the  account  of  Bunning-Ford. 

"  Twenty  thousand  dollars  —  um,"  the  look  of  satisfac- 
tion was  changed.  He  looked  less  pleased,  but  none  the 
less  cruel.  "  Not  enough  —  let  me  see.  His  place  is  worth 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  Stock  another  thirty  thousand.  I 
hold  thirty-five  thousand  on  first  mortgage  for  the  Calford 
Trust  and  Loan  Co."  He  smiled  significantly.  "  This  bill 
of  sale  for  twenty  thousand  is  in  my  own  name.  Total, 
fifty-five  thousand.  Sell  him  up  and  there  would  still  be  a 
margin.  No,  not  yet,  my  friend." 

He  closed  the  book  and  put  it  away.  Then  he  walked 
to  the  window.  Bunning-Ford's  horse  was  still  standing 
outside  the  house. 

"  He  must  be  dealt  with  soon,"  he  muttered. 

And  in  those  words  was  concentrated  a  world  of  hate  and 
cruel  purpose. 

Who  shall  say  of  what  a  man's  disposition  is  composed? 
Who  shall  penetrate  those  complex  feelings  which  go  to 
make  a  man  what  his  secret  consciousness  knows  himself 
to  be?  Not  even  the  man  himself  can  tell  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  his  passions  and  motives.  It  is  a  matter  be- 
yond the  human  ken.  It  is  a  matter  which  neither  science 
nor  learning  can  tell  us  of.  Verner  Lablache  was  possessed 
of  all  that  prosperity  could  give  him.  He  was  wealthy 
beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  and  no  pleasure  which  money 
could  buy  was  beyond  his  reach.  He  knew,  only  too  well, 


THE  "  STRAY  "  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG       49 

that  when  the  moment  came,  and  he  wished  it,  he  could  set 
out  for  any  of  the  great  centers  of  fashion  and  society,  and 
there  purchase  for  himself  a  wife  who  would  fulfill  the 
requirements  of  the  most  fastidious.  In  his  own  arrogant 
mind  he  went  further,  and  protested  that  he  could  choose 
whom  he  would  and  she  would  be  his.  But  this  method 
he  set  aside  as  too  simple,  and,  instead,  had  decided  to 
select  for  his  wife  a  girl  whom  he  had  watched  grow  up 
to  womanhood  from  the  first  day  that  she  had  opened  her 
great,  wondering  eyes  upon  the  world.  And  thus  far  he 
had  been  thwarted.  All  his  wealth  went  for  nothing.  The 
whim  of  this  girl  he  had  chosen  was  more  powerful  in  this 
matter  than  was  gold  —  the  gold  he  loved.  But  Lablache 
was  not  the  man  to  sit  down  and  admit  of  defeat;  he  meant 
to  marry  Joaquina  Allandale  willy-nilly.  Love  was  impos- 
sible to  such  a  man  as  he.  He  had  conceived  an  absorbing 
passion  for  her,  it  is  true,  but  love  —  as  it  is  generally 
understood  —  no.  He  was  not  a  young  man  —  the  victim 
of  a  passion,  fierce  but  transient.  He  was  matured  in  all 
respects  —  in  mind  and  body.  His  passion  was  lasting,  if 
impure,  and  he  meant  to  take  to  himself  the  girl-wife. 
Nothing  should  stand  in  his  way. 

He  turned  back  to  his  desk,  but  not  to  work. 

In  the  meantime  the  object  of  his  forcible  attentions  was 
holding  an  interesting  tete-a-tete  with  the  man  against  whom 
he  fostered  an  evil  purpose. 

Jacky  was  seated  at  a  table  in  the  pleasant  sitting-room 
of  her  uncle's  house.  Spread  out  before  her  were  several 
open  stock  books,  from  which  she  was  endeavoring  to  es- 
timate the  probable  number  of  "  beeves "  which  the  early 
spring  would  produce.  This  was  a  task  which  she  always 
liked  to  do  herself  before  the  round-up  was  complete,  so  as 
the  easier  to  sort  the  animals  into  their  various  pastures 
when  they  should  come  in.  Her  visitor  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  stove,  in  typical  Canadian  fashion.  He  was 
clad  in  a  pair  of  well-worn  chaps  drawn  over  a  pair  of 
moleskin  trousers,  and  wore  a  gray  tweed  coat  and  waistcoat 


50     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

over  a  soft  cotton  shirt,  of  the  "  collar  attached  "  type.  As 
he  stood  there  the  stoop  of  his  shoulders  was  very  pro- 
nounced. His  fair  hair  was  carefully  brushed,  and  although 
his  face  was  slightly  weather-stained,  still,  it  was  quite  easy 
to  imagine  the  distinguished  figure  he  would  be,  clad  in  all 
the  solemn  pomp  of  broadcloth  and  the  silk  glaze  of  fash- 
ionable society  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bond  Street 

The  girl  was  not  looking  at  her  books.  She  was  look- 
ing up  and  smiling  at  a  remark  her  companion  had  just 
made. 

"  And  so  your  friend,  Pat  Nabob,  is  going  up  into  the 
mountains  after  gold.  Does  he  know  anything  about 
prospecting  ?  " 

"  I  think  so  —  he's  had  some  experience." 

Jacky  became  serious.  She  rose  and  turned  to  the 
window,  which  commanded  a  perfect  view  of  the  distant 
peaks  of  the  Rockies,  towering  high  above  the  broad,  level 
expanse  of  the  great  muskeg.  With  her  back  still  turned 
to  him  she  fired  an  abrupt  question. 

"  Say,  Bill,  guess  *  Pickles '  has  some  other  reason  for 
this  mad  scheme.  What  is  it?  You  can't  tell  me  he's 
going  just  for  love  of  the  adventure  of  the  thing.  Now, 
let's  hear  the  truth." 

Unobserved  by  the  girl,  her  companion  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  If  you  want  his  reason  you'd  better  ask  him,  Jacky.  I 
can  only  surmise." 

"  So  can  I."  Jacky  turned  sharply.  "  I'll  tell  you  why 
he's  going,  Bill,  and  you  can  bet  your  last  cent  I'm  right. 
Lablache  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  He's  at  the  bottom  of 
everything  that  causes  people  to  leave  Foss  River.  He's  a 
blood-sucker." 

Bunning-Ford  nodded.  He  was  rarely  expansive. 
Moreover,  he  knew  he  could  add  nothing  to  what  the  girl 
had  said.  She  expressed  his  sentiments  fully.  There  was 
a  pause.  Jacky  was  keenly  eyeing  the  tall  thin  figure  at 
the  stove. 


THE  "  STRAY  "  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG      51 

"Why  did  you  come  to  tell  me  of  this?"  she  asked  at 
last. 

"  Thought  you'd  like  to  know.     You  like  *  Pickles.1 " 

"  Yes  —  Bill,  you  are  thinking  of  going  with  him." 

Her  companion  laughed  uneasily.  This  girl  was  very 
keen. 

"  I  didn't  say  so." 

"No,  but  still  you  are  thinking  of  doing  so.  See  here, 
Bill,  tell  me  all  about  it" 

Bill  coughed.  Then  he  turned,  and  stooping,  shook  the 
ashes  from  the  stove  and  opened  the  damper. 

"  Beastly  cold  in  here,"  he  remarked  inconsequently. 

"Yes  — but,  out  with  it." 

Bill  stood  up  and  turned  his  indolent  eyes  upon  his  in- 
terrogator. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  going  —  to  the  mountains." 

"Where  then?" 

"To  the  Yukon." 

"Ah!" 

In  spite  of  herself  the  girl  could  not  help  the  ex- 
clamation. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  went  on  a  moment  later. 

"Well,  if  you  must  have  it,  I  shan't  be  able  to  last  out 
this  summer  —  unless  a  stroke  of  luck  falls  to  my  share." 

"Financially?" 

"  Financially." 

"Lablache?" 

"Lablache  — and  the  Calford  Trust  Co." 

"The  same  thing,"  with  conviction. 

"Exactly  —  the  same  thing." 

"And  you  stand?" 

"  If  I  meet  the  interest  on  my  mortgages  it  will  take  away 
every  head  of  fat  cattle  I  can  scrape  together,  and  then  I 
cannot  pay  Lablache  other  debts  which  fall  due  in  two 
weeks'  time."  He  quietly  drew  out  his  tobacco-pouch  and 
rolled  a  cigarette.  He  seemed  quite  indifferent  to  his  diffi- 
culties. "  If  I  realize  on  the  ranch  now  there'll  be  some- 


52     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

thing  left  for  me.  If  I  go  on,  by  the  end  of  the  summer 
there  won't  be." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  will  be  deeper  in  debt." 

He  smiled  in  his  own  peculiarly  lazy  fashion  as  he  held  a 
lighted  match  to  his  cigarette. 

"  Just  so.  I  shall  owe  Lablache  more,"  he  said,  between 
spasmodic  draws  at  his  tobacco. 

"  Lablache  has  wonderful  luck  at  cards." 

"Yes,"  shortly. 

Jacky  returned  to  the  table  and  sat  down.  She  turned 
the  pages  of  a  stock  book  idly.  She  was  thinking  and  the 
expression  of  her  dark,  determined  little  face  indicated  the 
unpleasant  nature  of  her  thoughts.  Presently  she  looked 
up  and  encountered  the  steady  gaze  of  her  companion. 
They  were  great  friends  —  these  two.  In  that  glance  each 
read  in  the  other's  mind  something  of  a  mutual  thought. 
Jacky,  with  womanly  readiness,  put  part  of  it  into  words. 

"  No  one  ever  seems  to  win  against  him,  Bill.  Guess  he 
makes  a  steady  income  out  of  poker." 

The  man  nodded  and  gulped  down  a  deep  inhalation 
from  his  cigarette. 

"  Wonderful  luck,"  the  girl  went  on. 

"  Some  people  call  it  *  luck/  "  put  in  Bill,  quietly,  but 
with  a  curious  purse  of  the  lips. 

"  What  do  you  call  it?  "  sharply. 

Bunning-Ford  refused  to  commit  himself.  He  contented 
himself  with  blowing  the  ash  from  his  cigarette  and  cross- 
ing over  to  the  window,  where  he  stood  looking  out.  He 
had  come  there  that  afternoon  with  a  half-formed  intention 
of  telling  this  girl  something  which  every  girl  must  hope  to 
hear  sooner  or  later  in  her  life.  He  had  come  there  with 
the  intention  of  ending,  one  way  or  the  other,  a  friendship 
—  camaraderie  —  whatever  you  please  to  call  it,  by  telling 
this  hardy  girl  of  the  prairie  the  old,  old  story  over  again. 
He  loved  this  woman  with  an  intensity  that  very  few  would 
have  credited  him  with.  Who  could  associate  lazy,  good- 
natured,  careless  "  Lord  "  Bill  with  serious  love  ?  Certainly 


THE  "  STRAY  "  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG       53 

not  his  friends.  And  yet  such  was  the  case,  and  for  that 
reason  had  he  come.  The  affairs  of  Pat  Nabob  were  but  a 
subterfuge.  And  now  he  found  it  impossible  to  pronounce 
the  words  he  had  so  carefully  thought  out.  Jacky  was  not 
the  woman  to  approach  easily  with  sentiment,  she  was  so 
"deucedly  practical."  So  Bill  said  to  himself.  It  was 
useless  to  speculate  upon  her  feelings.  This  girl  never 
allowed  anything  approaching  sentiment  to  appear  upon 
the  surface.  She  knew  better  than  to  do  so.  She  had  the 
grave  responsibility  of  her  uncle's  ranch  upon  her  shoulders, 
therefore  all  men  must  be  kept  at  arm's  length.  She  was 
in  every  sense  a  woman,  passionate,  loyal,  loving.  But  in 
addition  nature  had  endowed  her  with  a  spirit  which  rose 
superior  to  feminine  attributes  and  feelings.  The  blood  in 
her  veins  —  her  life  on  the  prairie  —  her  tender  care  and 
solicitude  for  her  uncle,  of  whose  failings  and  weaknesses 
she  was  painfully  aware,  had  caused  her  to  put  from  her  all 
thoughts  of  love  and  marriage.  Her  life  must  be  devoted 
to  him,  and  while  he  lived  she  was  determined  that  no 
thought  of  self  should  interfere  with  her  self-imposed  duty. 

At  last  "  Lord  "  Bill  broke  the  silence  which  had  fallen 
upon  the  room  after  the  girl's  unanswered  question.  His 
remark  seemed  irrevelant  and  inconsequent. 

"  There's  a  horse  on  the  other  side  of  the  muskeg. 
Who's  is  it?  " 

Jacky  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant.  So  suddenly  had 
she  bounded  from  the  table,  that  her  companion  turned, 
with  that  lazy  glance  of  his,  and  looked  keenly  at  her.  He 
failed  to  understand  her  excitement.  She  had  snatched  up 
a  pair  of  field-glasses  and  had  already  leveled  them  at  the 
distant  object. 

She  looked  long  and  earnestly  across  the  miry  waste. 
Then  she  turned  to  her  companion  with  a  strange  look  in 
her  beautiful  gray  eyes. 

"  Bill,  I've  seen  that  horse  before.  Four  days  ago.  I've 
looked  for  it  ever  since,  but  couldn't  see  it.  I'm  going  to 
round  it  up." 


54     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"Eh?    How?" 

Bill  was  looking  out  across  the  muskeg  again. 

"  Guess  I'm  going  right  across  there  this  evening,"  the 
girl  said  quietly. 

"Across  the  muskeg?"  Her  companion  was  roused  out 
of  himself.  His  usually  lazy  gray  eyes  were  gleaming 
brightly.  "  Impossible!  " 

"  Not  at  all,  Bill,"  she  replied,  with  an  easy  smile.  "  I 
know  the  path." 

"  But  I  (bought  there  was  only  one  man  who  ever  knew 
that  mythical  path,  and  —  he  is  dead." 

"  Quite  right,  Bill  —  only  one  man." 

"Then  the  old  stories — " 

There  was  a  peculiar  expression  on  the  man's  face.  The 
girl  interrupted  him  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"  Bother  the  *  old  stories.'  I'm  going  across  there  this 
evening  after  tea  —  coming  ?  " 

Bunning-Ford  looked  across  at  the  clock  —  the  hands 
pointed  to  half-past  one.  He  was  silent  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  said, — 

"I'll  be  with  you  at  four  if  — if  you'll  tell  me  all 
about—" 

"Peter  Retief  —  yes,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  go,  Bill.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  until  then?  " 

"  I'm  going  down  to  the  saloon  to  meet  *  Pickles/  your  pet 
aversion,  Pedro  Mancha,  and  we're  going  to  find  a  fourth." 

"Ah,  poker?" 

"  Yes,  poker." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Bill.  But  be  here  at  four  sharp  and  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it.  See  here,  boy,  *  mum's  '  the  word." 

The  craving  of  the  Hon.  Bunning-Ford's  life  was  excite- 
ment His  temperament  bordered  on  the  lethargic.  He 
felt  that  unless  he  could  obtain  excitement  life  was  utterly 
unbearable.  He  had  sought  it  all  over  the  world  before  he 
had  adopted  the  life  of  a  rancher.  Here  in  the  West  of 
Canada  he  had  found  something  of  what  he  sought.  There 
was  the  big  game  shooting  in  the  mountains,  and  the  pursuit 


THE  "  STRAY  "  BEYOND  THE  MUSKEG       55 

of  the  "  grizzly  "  is  the  most  wildly  enthralling  chase  in  the 
world.  There  was  the  taming  and  "  breaking  "  of  the  wild 
and  furious  "  broncho  " —  the  most  exemplary  "  bucking  " 
horse  in  the  world.  There  was  the  "  round-up  "  and  hand- 
ling of  cattle  which  never  failed  to  give  unlimited  excite- 
ment. And  then,  at  all  times,  was  the  inevitable  poker,  that 
king  of  all  excitements  among  card  games.  The  West  of 
Canada  had  pleased  "  Lord  "  Bill  as  did  no  other  country, 
and  so  he  had  invested  the  remains  of  his  younger  son's  por- 
tion in  stock. 

He  had  asked  for  excitement  and  Canada  had  responded 
generously.  Bill  had  found  more  than  excitement,  he  had 
found  love;  and  had  found  a  wealth  of  real  friendship  rarely 
equaled  in  the  busy  cities  of  civilization. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  things  which,  seeking,  he  had 
found,  came  this  suggestion  from  a  girl.  The  muskeg  — 
the  cruel,  relentless  muskeg,  that  mire,  dreaded  and 
shunned  by  white  men  and  natives  alike.  It  could  be 
crossed  by  a  secret  path.  The  thought  pleased  him.  And 
none  knew  of  this  path  except  a  man  who  was  dead  and 
this  girl  he  loved.  There  was  a  strange  excitement  in  the 
thought  of  such  a  journey. 

"  Lord  "  Bill,  ignoring  his  stirrup,  vaulted  into  his  saddle, 
and,  as  he  swung  his  horse  round  and  headed  towards  the 
settlement,  he  wondered  what  the  day  would  bring  forth. 

"  Confound  the  cards,"  he  muttered,  as  he  rode  away. 

And  it  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  reluct- 
antly contemplated  a  gamble. 

Had  he  only  known  it,  a  turning-point  in  his  life  was 
rapidly  approaching  —  a  turning-point  which  would  lead  to 
events  which,  if  told  as  about  to  occur  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  would  surely  bring  down  derision  upon  the  head  of 
the  teller.  And  yet  would  the  derided  one  have  right  on 
his  side. 


CHAPTER    VI 


IT  was  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  Allendales' 
house  to  the  saloon  —  a  den  of  reeking  atmosphere  and 
fouler  spirits. 

The  saloon  at  Foss  River  was  no  better  and  no  worse 
than  hundreds  of  others  in  the  North-West  at  the  time  of 
which  we  write.  It  was  a  fairly  large  wooden  building 
standing  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  open  space  which 
answered  the  purpose  of  a  market-place,  and  facing 
Lablache's  store.  Inside,  it  was  gloomy,  and  the  air  in- 
variably reeked  of  stale  tobacco  and  drink.  The  bar  was 
large,  and  at  one  end  stood  a  piano  kept  for  the  purpose  of 
"  sing-songs " —  nightly  occurrences  when  the  execrable 
whisky  had  done  its  work.  Passing  through  the  bar  one 
finds  a  large  dining-room  on  one  side  of  a  passage,  and, 
on  the  other,  a  number  of  smaller  rooms  devoted  to  the  use 
of  those  who  wished  to  play  poker. 

It  was  towards  this  place  that  the  Hon.  Bunning-Ford 
was  riding  in  the  leisurely  manner  of  one  to  whom  time  is 
no  object. 

His  thoughts  were  far  from  matters  pertaining  to  his 
destination,  and  he  would  gladly  have  welcomed  anything 
which  could  have  interfered  with  his  projected  game.  For 
the  moment  poker  had  lost  its  charm. 

This  man  was  at  no  time  given  to  vacillation.  All  his 
methods  were,  as  a  rule,  very  direct.  Underneath  his  easy 
nonchalance  he  was  of  a  very  decided  nature.  His  thin 
face  at  times  could  suddenly  become  very  keen.  His  true 
character  was  hidden  by  the  cultivated  lazy  expression  of 
his  eyes.  Bunning-Ford  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  at 

56 


"WAYS  THAT  ARE  DARK"  57 

their  best  in  emergency.  At  all  other  times  life  was  a 
thing  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  take  seriously. 
He  valued  money  as  little  as  he  valued  anything  in  the 
world.  Poker  he  looked  upon  as  a  means  to  an  end.  He 
had  no  religious  principles,  but  firmly  believed  in  doing  as 
he  would  be  done  by.  Honesty  and  truth  he  loved,  because 
to  him  they  were  clean.  It  mattered  nothing  to  him  what 
his  surroundings  might  be,  for,  though  living  in  them,  he 
was  not  of  them.  He  would  as  soon  sit  down  to  play  cards 
with  three  known  murderers  as  play  in  the  best  club  in  Lon- 
don, and  he  would  treat  them  honestly  and  expect  the  same 
in  return  —  but  a  loaded  revolver  would  be  slung  upon  his 
hip  and  the  holster  would  be  open  and  handy. 

As  he  neared  the  saloon  he  recognized  the  figures  of  two 
men  walking  in  the  direction  of  the  saloon.  They  were 
the  doctor  and  John  Allendale.  He  rode  towards  them. 

"  Hallo,  Bill,  whither  bound  ?  "  said  the  old  rancher,  as 
the  younger  man  came  up.  "  Going  to  join  us  in  the  parlor 
of  Smith's  fragrant  hostelry?  The  spider  is  already  there 
weaving  the  web  in  which  he  hopes  to  ensnare  us." 

Bunning-Ford  shook  his  head. 

"Who's  the  spider  —  Lablache?" 

"  Yes,  we're  going  to  play.  It's  the  first  time  for  some 
days.  Guess  we've  all  been  too  busy  with  the  round-up. 
Won't  you  really  join  us?  " 

"  Can't.  I've  promised  Mancha  and  '  Pickles  '  revenge 
for  a  game  we  played  the  other  night,  when  I  happened  to 
relieve  them  of  a  few  dollars." 

"  Sensible  man  —  Lablache  is  too  consistent,"  put  in  the 
doctor,  quietly. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  "  Poker "  John,  optimistically. 
"You're  always  carping  about  the  man's  luck.  We  must 
break  it  soon." 

"  Yes,  we've  suggested  that  before." 

Bill  spoke  with  meaning  and  finished  up  with  a  purse  of 
the  lips. 

They  were  near  the  saloon. 


58     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  play?  "  he  went  on  quietly. 

"Right  through  the  evening,"  replied  "Poker"  John, 
with  keen  satisfaction.  "And  you?" 

"  Only  until  four  o'clock.  I  am  going  to  take  tea  up  at 
your  place." 

The  old  man  offered  no  comment  and  Bill  dismounted 
and  tied  the  horse  to  a  post,  and  the  three  men  entered  the 
stuffy  bar.  The  room  was  half  full  of  people.  They  were 
mostly  cow-boys  or  men  connected  with  the  various  ranches 
about  the  neighborhood.  Words  of  greeting  hailed  the 
new-comers  on  all  sides,  but  old  John,  who  led  the  way, 
took  little  or  no  notice  of  those  whom  he  recognized.  The 
lust  of  gambling  was  upon  him,  and,  as  a  dipsomaniac 
craves  for  drink,  so  he  was  longing  to  feel  the  smooth  surface 
of  pasteboard  between  his  fingers.  While  Bunning-Ford 
stopped  to  exchange  a  word  with  some  of  those  he  met,  the 
other  two  men  went  straight  up  to  the  bar.  Smith  himself, 
a  grizzled  old  man,  with  a  tobacco-stained  gray  moustache 
and  beard,  and  the  possessor  of  a  pair  of  narrow,  wicked- 
looking  eyes,  was  serving  out  whisky  to  a  couple  of  worse- 
looking  half-breeds.  It  was  noticeable  that  every  man 
present  wore  at  his  waist  either  a  revolver  or  a  long  sheath 
knife.  Even  the  proprietor  was  fully  armed.  The  half- 
breeds  wore  knives. 

"  Poker  "  John  was  apparently  a  man  of  distinction  here. 
Possibly  the  knowledge  that  he  played  a  big  game  elicited 
for  hun  a  sort  of  indifferent  respect.  Anyway,  the  half- 
breeds  moved  to  allow  him  to  approach  the  bar. 

"Lablache  here?  "  asked  the  rancher,  eagerly. 

"  He  is,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  in  a  drawling  voice,  as 
he  pushed  the  two  whiskies  across  to  the  waiting  half- 
breeds.  "  Been  here  half  an  hour.  Jest  pass  right  through, 
mister.  Maybe  you'll  find  him  located  in  number  two." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  John  B.  Smith  hailed  from 
America.  Although  the  Canadian  is  not  devoid  of  the 
American  accent  there  is  not  much  doubt  of  nationality 
when  one  hears  the  real  thing. 


"  WAYS  THAT  ARE  DARK  "  59 

"  Good;  come  on,  Doc.  No,  thanks,  Smith,"  as  the  man 
behind  the  bar  reached  towards  a  bottle  with  a  white  seal. 
"  We'll  have  something  later  on.  Number  two  on  the  right, 
I  think  you  said." 

The  two  men  passed  on  into  the  back  part  of  the  premises. 

"Guess  dollars'll  be  flyin'  'fore  the  night's  out,"  said 
Smith,  addressing  any  who  cared  to  listen,  and  indicating 
"  Poker  "  John  with  a  jerk  of  the  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  door  through  which  the  two  men  had  just  passed. 
"  Make  the  banks  hum  when  they  raise  the  *  bid.'  Guess 
ther'  ain't  many  o'  ther'  likes  roun'  these  parts.  Rye  or 
Scotch?"  to  "Lord"  Bill  and  three  other  men  who  came 
up  at  that  moment.  Mancha  and  "  Pickles "  were  with 
him,  and  a  fourth  player  —  the  deposed  captain  of  the 
"  round-up,"  Sim  Lory. 

"  Scotch,  you  old  heathen,  of  course,"  replied  Bill,  with 
a  tolerant  laugh.  "  You  don't  expect  us  to  drink  fire-water. 
If  you  kept  decent  Rye  it  would  be  different.  We're  going 
to  have  a  flutter.  Any  room?  " 

"  Number  two,  I  guess.  Chock-a-block  in  the  others. 
Tolerable  run  on  poker  these  times.  All  the  round-up  hands 
been  gettin'  advances,  I  take  it.  Say  when." 

The  four  men  said  "  when "  in  due  course,  and  each 
watered  his  own  whisky.  The  proprietor  went  on,  with  a 
quick  twinkle  of  his  beady  eyes, — 

"Ther's  Mr.  Allendale  an'  Lablache  and  company  in  num- 
ber two.  Nobody  else,  I  guess.  I've  a  notion  you'll  find 
plenty  of  room.  Chips,  no?  All  right;  goin'  to  play  a 
tidy  game?  Good!  " 

The  four  men,  having  swallowed  their  drink,  followed  in 
the  footsteps  of  the  others. 

There  was  something  very  brisk  and  business-like  about 
this  gambling-hell.  Early  settlers  doubtless  remember  in 
the  days  of  "  prohibition,"  when  four  per  cent,  beer  was 
supposed  to  be  the  only  beverage  of  the  country,  and  before 
rigid  legislation,  backed  by  the  armed  force  of  the  North- 
West  Mounted  Police,  swept  these  frightful  pollutions  from 


60     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  fair  face  of  the  prairie,  how  they  thrived  on  the  encour- 
agement of  gambling  and  the  sale  of  contraband  spirits. 
The  West  is  a  cleaner  country  now,  thanks  to  the  untiring 
efforts  of  the  police. 

In  number  two  "  Poker  "  John  and  his  companions  were 
already  getting  to  work  when  Bill  and  his  friends  entered. 
Beyond  a  casual  remark  they  seemed  to  take  little  notice  of 
each  other.  One  and  all  were  eager  to  begin  the  play. 

A  deep  silence  quickly  fell  upon  the  room.  It  was  the 
silence  of  suppressed  excitement.  A  silence  only  broken  by 
monosyllabic  and  almost  whispered  betting  and  "  raising  " 
as  the  games  proceeded.  An  hour  passed  thus.  At  the 
table  where  Labloche  and  John  Allendale  were  playing  the 
usual  luck  prevailed.  The  money-lender  seemed  unable  to 
do  wrong,  and  at  the  other  table  Bunning-Ford  was  faring 
correspondingly  badly.  Pedro  Mancha,  the  Mexican,  a  man 
of  obscure  past  and  who  lived  no  one  quite  knew  how,  but 
who  always  appeared  to  find  the  necessary  to  gamble  with, 
was  the  favored  one  of  dame  Fortune.  Already  he  had 
heaped  before  him  a  pile  of  "  bills  "  and  I.  O.  U.'s  most  of 
which  bore  "  Lord  "  Bill's  signature.  Looking  on  at  either 
table,  no  one  from  outward  signs  could  have  said  which  way 
the  luck  was  going.  Only  the  scribblings  of  the  pencils 
upon  the  memo,  pads  and  the  gradual  accumulation  of  the 
precious  slips  of  paper  before  Lablache  at  one  table  and  the 
wild-eyed,  dark-skinned  Mexican  at  the  other,  told  the  story 
of  the  ruin  which  was  surely  being  accomplished. 

At  length,  with  a  loser's  privilege,  Bunning-Ford,  after 
glancing  at  his  watch,  rose  from  the  table.  His  lean  face 
was  in  no  way  disturbed.  He  seemed  quite  indifferent  to 
his  losses. 

"  I'll  quit  you,  Pedro,"  he  said,  smiling  lazily  down  at 
the  Mexican.  "  You're  a  bit  too  hot  for  me  to-day." 

The  dark-skinned  man  smiled  a  vague,  non-committing 
smile  and  displayed  a  double  row  of  immaculate  teeth. 

"  Good.  You  shall  have  your  revenge.  Doubtless  you 
would  like  some  of  these  papers  back/'  he  said,  as  he  swept 


"  WAYS  THAT  ARE  DARK  "  61 

them  leisurely  into  his  pocket-book,  and  then  sugar-bagging 
a  cigarette  paper  he  poured  a  few  grains  of  granulated  to- 
bacco into  it. 

"  Yes,  I  daresay  I  shall  relieve  you  of  some  later  on," 
replied  Bill,  quietly.  Then  he  turned  to  the  other  table 
and  stood  watching  the  play. 

He  glanced  anxiously  at  the  bare  table  in  front  of  the 
old  rancher.  Even  Dr.  Abbot  was  well  stocked  with  slips 
of  paper.  Then  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  money-lender,  be- 
hind whose  huge  back  he  was  standing. 

He  moved  slightly  to  one  side.  It  is  an  unwritten  law 
amongst  poker  players,  in  a  public  place  in  the  west  of  the 
American  continent,  that  no  onlooker  should  stand  im- 
mediately behind  any  player.  He  moved  to  Lablache's 
right.  The  money-lender  was  dealing.  "Lord"  Bill  lit 
a  cigarette. 

The  cards  were  dealt  round.  Then  the  draw.  Then 
Lablache  laid  the  pack  down.  Bunning-Ford  had  noted 
these  things  mechanically.  Then  something  caught  his 
attention.  It  was  his  very  indifference  which  caused  his 
sudden  attention.  Had  he  been  following  the  game  with 
his  usual  keenness  he  would  only  have  been  thinking  of  the 
betting. 

Lablache  was  writing  upon  his  memo,  pad,  which  was  a 
gorgeous  effort  in  silver  mounting.  One  of  those  oblong 
blocks  with  a  broad  band  of  burnished  silver  at  the  binding 
of  the  perforated  leaves.  He  knew  that  this  was  the  pad 
the  money-lender  always  used;  anyway,  it  was  similar  in 
all  respects  to  his  usual  memorandum  pads. 

How  it  was  his  attention  had  become  fixed  upon  that  pad 
he  could  not  have  told,  but  now  an  inspiration  came  to  him. 
His  face  remained  unchanged  in  its  expression,  but  those 
lazy  eyes  of  his  gleamed  wickedly  as  he  leisurely  puffed  at 
his  cigarette. 

The  bet  went  round.  Lablache  raised  and  raised  again. 
Eventually  the  rancher  "  saw "  him.  The  other  took  the 
pool.  No  word  was  spoken,  but  "  Lord  "  Bill  gritted  his 


62     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

teeth  and  viciously  pitched  his  cigarette  to  the  other  end  of 
the  room. 

During  the  next  two  deals  he  allowed  his  attention  to 
wander.  Lablache  dropped  out  one  hand,  and,  in  the  next, 
he  merely  "  filled  "  his  "  ante  "  and  allowed  the  doctor  to 
take  in  the  pool.  John  Allendale's  face  was  serious.  The 
nervous  twitching  of  the  cheek  was  still,  but  the  drawn  lines 
around  his  mouth  were  in  no  way  hidden  by  his  gray  mus- 
tache, nor  did  the  eager  light  which  burned  luridly  in  his 
eyes  for  one  moment  deceive  the  onlooker  as  to  the  anxiety 
of  mind  which  his  features  masked. 

Now  it  was  Lablache's  deal.  "  Lord  "  Bill  concentrated 
his  attention  upon  the  dealer.  The  money-lender  was  left- 
handed.  He  held  the  pack  in  his  right,  and,  in  dealing, 
he  was  slow  and  slightly  clumsy.  The  object  of  Bunning- 
Ford's  attention  quickly  became  apparent.  Each  card  as 
it  left  the  pack  was  passed  over  the  burnished  silver  of  the 
dealer's  memorandum  pad.  It  was  smartly  done,  and 
Lablache  was  assisted  by  the  fact  that  the  piece  of  metal 
was  inclined  towards  him.  There  was  no  necessity  to  look 
down  deliberately  to  see  the  reflection  of  each  card  as  it 
passed  on  its  way  to  its  recipient,  a  glance  —  just  the  glance 
necessary  when  dealing  cards  —  and  the  money-lender,  by  a 
slight  effort  of  memory,  knew  every  hand  that  was  out. 
Lablache  was  cheating. 

To  say  that  "  Lord  "  Bill  was  astonished  would  be  wrong. 
He  was  not.  He  had  long  suspected  it.  The  steady  run 
of  luck  which  Lablache  had  persisted  in  was  too  phenomenal. 
It  was  enough  to  set  the  densest  thinking.  Now  everything 
was  plain.  Standing  where  he  was,  Bill  had  almost  been 
able  to  read  the  index  numerals  himself.  He  gave  no  sign 
of  his  discovery.  Apparently  the  matter  was  of  no  con- 
sequence to  him,  for  he  merely  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  and 
walked  towards  the  door.  He  turned  as  he  was  about  to 
pass  out. 

"  What  time  shall  I  tell  Jacky  to  expect  you  home, 
John  ?  "  he  said  quietly,  addressing  the  old  rancher. 


"  WAYS  THAT  ARE  DARK  "  63 

Lablache  looked  up  with  a  swift,  malevolent  glance,  but 
he  said  nothing.  Old  John  turned  a  drawn  face  to  the 
speaker. 

"  Supper,  I  guess,"  he  said  in  a  thick  voice,  husky  from 
long  silence.  "  And  tell  Smith  to  send  me  in  a  bottle  of 
'  white  seal '  and  some  glasses." 

"Right  you  are."  Then  "Lord"  Bill  passed  out. 
"  Poker  without  whisky  is  bad,"  he  muttered  as  he  made 
his  way  back  to  the  bar,  "  but  poker  and  whisky  together 
can  only  be  the  beginning  of  the  end.  We'll  see.  Poor 
old  John!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

ACROSS    THE   GREAT   MUSKEG 

IT  was  on  the  stroke  of  four  o'clock  when  Bunning-Ford 
left  the  saloon.  He  had  said  that  he  would  be  at  the  ranch 
at  four,  and  usually  he  liked  to  be  punctual.  He  was  late 
now,  however,  and  made  no  effort  to  make  up  time.  Instead, 
he  allowed  his  horse  to  walk  leisurely  in  the  direction  of  the 
Allandales'  house.  He  wanted  time  to  think  before  he  again 
met  Jacky. 

He  was  confronted  by  a  problem  which  taxed  all  his  wit. 
It  was  perhaps  a  fortunate  thing  that  his  was  not  a  hasty 
temperament.  He  well  knew  the  usual  method  of  dealing 
with  men  who  cheated  at  cards  in  those  Western  wilds. 
Each  man  carried  his  own  law  in  his  holster.  He  had 
realized  instantly  that  Lablache  was  not  a  case  for  the  us- 
ual treatment.  Pistol  law  would  have  defeated  its  own 
ends.  Such  means  would  not  recover  the  terrible  losses  of 
"  Poker  "  John,  neither  would  he  recover  thereby  his  own 
lost  property.  No,  he  congratulated  himself  upon  the  re- 
straint he  had  exercised  when  he  had  checked  his  natural 
impulse  to  expose  the  money-lender.  Now,  however,  the 
case  looked  more  complicated,  and,  for  the  moment,  he  could 
see  no  possible  means  of  solving  the  difficulty.  Lablache 
must  be  made  to  disgorge  —  but  how  ?  John  Allendale  must 
be  stopped  playing  and  further  contributing  to  Lablache's 
ill-gotten  gains.  Again  —  but  how? 

Bill  was  roused  out  of  his  usual  apathetic  indifference. 
The  moment  had  arrived  when  he  must  set  aside  the  old 
indolent  carelessness.  He  was  stirred  to  the  core.  A  duty 
had  been  suddenly  forced  upon  him.  A  duty  to  himself 
and  also  a  duty  to  those  he  loved.  Lablache  had  con- 

64 


ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG  65 

sistently  robbed  him,  and  also  the  uncle  of  the  girl  he 
loved.  Now,  how  to  restore  that  property  and  prevent  the 
villain's  further  depredations? 

Again  and  again  he  asked  himself  the  question  as  he 
allowed  his  horse  to  mouche,  with  slovenly  step,  over  the 
sodden  prairie;  but  no  answer  presented  itself.  His  thin, 
eagle  face  was  puckered  with  perplexity.  The  sleepy  eyes 
gleamed  vengefully  from  between  his  half-closed  eyelids  as 
he  gazed  across  the  sunlit  prairie.  His  aquiline  nose,  always 
bearing  a  resemblance  to  an  eagle's  beak,  was  rendered  even 
more  like  that  aristocratic  proboscis  by  reason  of  the  down- 
drawn  tip,  consequent  upon  the  odd  pursing  of  his  tightly- 
compressed  lips.  For  the  moment  "  Lord  "  Bill  was  at  a 
loss.  And,  oddly  enough,  he  began  to  wonder  if,  after  all, 
silence  had  been  his  best  course. 

He  was  still  struggling  in  the  direst  perplexity  when  he 
drew  up  at  the  veranda  of  the  ranch.  Dismounting,  he 
hitched  his  picket  rope  to  the  tying-post  and  entered  the 
sitting-room  by  the  open  French  window.  Tea  was  set 
upon  the  table  and  Jacky  was  seated  before  the 
stove. 

"  Late,  Bill,  late !  Guess  that  '  plug '  of  yours  is  a  rapid 
beast,  judging  by  the  pace  you  came  up  the  hill." 

For  the  moment  Bunn  ing-Ford's  face  had  resumed  its 
wonted  air  of  lazy  good-nature. 

"  Glad  you  took  the  trouble  to  watch  for  me,  Jacky,"  he 
retorted  quickly,  with  an  attempt  at  his  usual  lightness  of 
manner.  "  I  appreciate  the  honor." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.  I  was  looking  for  uncle.  The 
mail  brought  a  letter  from  Calford.  Dawson,  the  cattle 
buyer  of  the  Western  Railway  Company,  wants  to  see 
him.  The  Home  Government  are  buying  largely.  He  is 
commissioned  to  purchase  30,000  head  of  prime  beeves. 
Come  along,  tea's  ready." 

Bill  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  Jacky  poured  out  the 
tea.  She  was  dressed  for  the  saddle. 

"Where  is  Dawson  now?  "  asked  Bill. 


66     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Calford.     Guess  he'll  wait  right  there  for  uncle." 

Suddenly  a  look  of  relief  passed  across  the  man's  face. 

"  This  is  Wednesday.  At  six  o'clock  the  mail-cart  goes 
back  to  town.  Send  some  one  down  to  the  saloon  at  once, 
and  John  will  be  able  to  go  in  to-night." 

As  Bill  spoke  his  eyes  encountered  a  direct  and  steady 
glance  from  the  girl.  There  was  much  meaning  in  that 
mute  exchange.  For  answer  Jacky  rose  and  rang  a  bell 
sharply. 

"  Send  a  hand  down  to  the  settlement  to  find  my  uncle. 
Ask  him  to  come  up  at  once.  There  is  an  important  letter 
awaiting  him,"  she  said,  to  the  old  servant  who  answered 
the  summons. 

"Bill,  what's  up?"  she  went  on,  when  the  retainer  had 
departed. 

"Lots.  Look  here,  Jacky,  we  mustn't  be  long  over  tea. 
We  must  both  be  out  of  the  house  when  your  uncle  returns. 
He  may  not  want  to  go  into  town  to-night.  Anyway,  I 
don't  want  to  give  him  the  chance  of  asking  any  questions 
until  we  have  had  a  long  talk.  He's  losing  to  Lablache 
again." 

"  Ah !  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat.  Whenever  you  are 
ready,  Bill,  I  am." 

Bunning-Ford  drank  his  tea  and  rose  from  the  table. 
The  girl  followed  his  example. 

There  was  something  very  strong  and  resolute  in  the 
brisk,  ready- for-emergency  ways  of  this  girl.  There  was 
nothing  of  the  ultra-feminine  dependence  and  weakness 
of  her  sex  about  her.  And  yet  her  hardiness  detracted  in 
no  way  from  her  womanly  charm;  rather  was  that  complex 
abstract  enhanced  by  her  wonderful  self-reliance.  There 
are  those  who  decry  independence  in  women,  but  surely 
only  such  must  come  from  those  whose  nature  is  largely 
composed  of  hectoring  selfishness.  There  was  a  resolute 
set  of  the  mouth  as  Jacky  sent  word  to  the  stables  to  have 
her  horse  brought  round.  She  asked  no  questions  of  her 
companion,  as,  waiting  for  compliance  with  her  orders,  she 


ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG  67 

drew  on  her  stout  buckskin  gauntlets.  She  understood  this 
man  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  his  suggestion  was  based 
upon  necessity.  "  Lord "  Bill  rarely  interfered  with  any- 
thing or  anybody,  but  when  such  an  occasion  arose  his  words 
carried  a  deal  of  weight  with  those  who  knew  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  and  they  were  both  riding  slowly 
down  the  avenue  of  pines  leading  from  the  house.  The 
direction  in  which  they  were  moving  was  away  from  the 
settlement,  down  towards  where  the  great  level  flat  of  the 
muskeg  began.  At  the  end  of  the  avenue  they  turned 
directly  to  the  southeast,  leaving  the  township  behind 
them.  The  prairie  was  soft  and  springy.  There  was  still  a 
keen  touch  of  winter  in  the  fresh  spring  air.  The  afternoon 
sun  was  shining  coldly  athwart  the  direction  of  their  route. 

Jacky  led  the  way,  and,  as  they  drew  clear  of  the  bush, 
and  the  house  and  settlement  were  hidden  from  view  be- 
hind them,  she  urged  her  horse  into  a  good  swinging  lope. 
Thus  they  progressed  in  silence.  The  far-reaching  deadly 
mire  on  their  right,  looking  innocent  enough  in  the  shadow 
of  the  snow-clad  peaks  beyond,  the  ranch  well  behind  them 
in  the  hollow  of  the  Foss  River  Valley,  whilst,  on  their  left, 
the  mighty  prairie  rolled  away  upwards  to  the  higher  level  of 
the  surrounding  country. 

In  this  way  they  covered  nearly  a  mile,  then  the  girl 
drew  up  beside  a  small  clump  of  weedy  bush. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  the  plunge,  Bill  ?  "  she  asked,  as  her 
companion  drew  up  beside  her.  "The  path's  not  more 
than  four  feet  wide.  Does  your  *  plug  '  shy  any?  " 

"He's  all  right.  You  lead  right  on.  Where  you  can 
travel  I've  a  notion  I'm  not  likely  to  funk.  But  I  don't  see 
the  path." 

"  I  guess  you  don't.  Never  did  nature  keep  her  secret 
better  than  in  the  setting  out  of  this  one  road  across  her 
woeful  man-trap.  You  can't  see  the  path,  but  I  guess  it's  an 
open  book  to  me,  and  its  pages  ain't  Hebrew  either.  Say, 
Bill,  there's  been  many  a  good  prairie  man  looking  for  this 
path,  but" — with  a  slight  accent  of  exultation — "they've 


68     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

never  found  it.  Come  on.  Old  Nigger  knows  it;  many 
a  time  has  he  trodden  its  soft  and  shaking  surface.  Good 
old  horse!  "  and  she  patted  the  black  neck  of  her  charger 
as  she  turned  his  head  towards  the  distant  hills  and  urged 
him  forward  with  a  "  chirrup." 

Far  across  the  muskeg  the  distant  peaks  of  the  mountain 
range  glistened  in  the  afternoon  sun  like  diamond-studded 
sugar  loaves.  So  high  were  the  clouds  that  every  portion 
of  the  mighty  summits  was  clearly  outlined.  The  great 
ramparts  of  the  prairie  are  a  magnificent  sight  on  a  clear 
day.  Flat  and  smooth  as  any  billiard-table  stretched  this 
silent,  mysterious  muskeg,  already  green  and  fair  to  the  eye, 
an  alluring  pasture  to  the  unwary.  An  experienced  eye 
might  have  judged  it  too  green  —  too  alluring.  Could  a 
more  perfect  trap  be  devised  by  evil  human  ingenuity  than 
this?  Think  for  one  instant  of  a  bottomless  pit  of  liquid 
soil,  absorbing  in  its  peculiar  density.  Think  of  all  the 
horrors  of  a  quicksand,  which,  embracing,  sucks  down  into 
its  cruel  bosom  the  despairing  victim  of  its  insatiable 
greed.  Think  of  a  thin,  solid  crust,  spread  like  icing  upon 
a  cake  and  concealing  the  soft,  spongy  matter  beneath, 
covering  every  portion  of  the  cruel  plain;  a  crust  which 
yields  a  crop  of  luxurious,  enticing  grass  of  the  most  perfect 
emerald  hue;  a  crust  firm  in  itself  and  dry  looking,  and 
yet  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  weight  of  a  good-sized 
terrier.  And  what  imagination  can  possibly  conceive  a 
more  cruel  —  more  perfect  trap  for  man  or  beast?  Woe  to 
the  creature  which  trusts  its  weight  upon  that  treacherous 
crust.  For  one  fleeting  instant  it  will  sway  beneath  the 
tread,  then,  in  the  flash  of  a  thought,  it  will  break,  and  once 
the  surface  gives  no  human  power  can  save  the  victim. 
Down,  down  into  the  depths  must  the  poor  wretch  be  plunged, 
with  scarce  time  to  offer  a  prayer  to  God  for  the  poor  soul 
which  so  swiftly  passes  to  its  doom.  Such  is  the  muskeg; 
and  surely  more  terrible  is  it  than  is  that  horror  of  the  navi- 
gator—  the  quicksands. 

The  girl  led  the  way  without  as  much  as  a  passing  thought 


ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG  69 

for  the  dangers  which  surrounded  her.  Truly  had  her  com- 
panion said  "  I  don't  see  the  path,"  for  no  path  was  to  be 
seen.  But  Jacky  had  learned  her  lesson  well  —  and  learned 
it  from  one  who  read  the  prairie  as  the  Bedouin  reads  the 
desert.  The  path  was  there  and  with  a  wondrous  assurance 
she  followed  its  course. 

The  travelers  moved  silently  along.  No  word  was  spoken ; 
each  was  wrapped  in  thought.  Now  and  again  a  stray 
prairie  chicken  would  fly  up  from  their  path  with  a  whirr, 
and  speed  across  the  mire,  calling  to  its  mate  as  it  went. 
The  drowsy  chirrup  of  frogs  went  on  unceasingly  around, 
and  already  the  ubiquitous  mosquito  was  on  the  prowl  for 
human  gore. 

The  upstanding  horses  now  walked  with  down-drooped 
heads,  with  sniffing  noses  low  towards  the  ground,  ears 
cocked,  and  with  alert,  careful  tread,  as  if  fully  alive  to  the 
danger  of  their  perilous  road.  The  silence  of  that  ride 
teemed  with  a  thrill  of  danger.  Half  an  hour  passed  and 
then  the  girl  gathered  up  her  reins  and  urged  her  willing 
horse  into  a  canter. 

"  Come  on,  Bill,  the  path  is  more  solid  now,  and  wider. 
The  worst  part  is  on  the  far  side,"  she  called  back  over 
her  shoulder. 

Her  companion  followed  her  unquestioningly. 

The  sun  was  already  clipping  towards  the  distant  peaks  and 
already  a  shadowy  haze  was  rising  upon  the  eastern  prairie. 
The  chill  of  winter  grew  keener  as  the  sun  slowly  sank. 

Two-thirds  of  the  journey  were  covered  and  Jacky,  hold- 
ing up  a  warning  hand,  drew  up  her  horse.  Her  com- 
panion came  to  a  stand  beside  her. 

"  The  path  divides  in  three  here,"  said  the  girl,  glancing 
keenly  down  at  the  fresh  green  grass.  "  Two  of  the  branches 
are  blind  and  end  abruptly  further  on.  Guess  we  must 
avoid  'em,"  she  went  on  shortly,  "  unless  we  are  anxious  to 
punctuate  our  earthly  career.  This  is  the  one  we  must  take," 
turning  her  horse  to  the  left  path.  "  Keep  your  eye  peeled 
and  stick  to  Nigger's  footprints." 


70      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  man  did  as  he  was  bid,  marvelling  the  while  at  the 
strange  knowledge  of  his  companion.  He  had  no  fear;  he 
only  wondered.  The  trim,  graceful  figure  on  the  horse 
ahead  of  him  occupied  all  his  thoughts.  He  watched  her 
as,  with  quiet  assurance  she  guided  her  horse.  He  had 
known  Jacky  for  years.  He  had  watched  her  grow  to 
womanhood,  but  although  her  up-bringing  must  of  necessity 
have  taught  her  an  independence  and  courage  given  to  few 
women,  he  had  never  dreamt  of  the  strength  of  the  sturdy 
nature  she  was  now  displaying.  Again  his  thoughts  went 
to  the  tales  of  the  gossips  of  the  settlement,  and  the  strange 
figure  of  the  daring  cattle-thief  loomed  up  over  his  mental 
horizon.  He  rode,  and  as  he  rode  he  wondered.  The  end 
of  this  journey  would  be  a  fitting  place  for  the  explanations 
which  must  take  place  between  them. 

At  length  the  shaking  path  came  to  an  end  and  the  mire 
was  crossed.  A  signal  from  the  girl  brought  her  companion 
to  her  side. 

"  We  have  crossed  it,"  she  said,  glancing  up  at  the  sun, 
and  indicating  the  muskeg  with  a  backward  jerk  of  her 
head.  "  Now  for  the  horse." 

"What  about  your  promise  to  tell  me  about  Peter 
Retief?" 

"  Guess  being  the  narrator  you  must  let  me  take  my 
time." 

She  smiled  up  into  her  companion's  eagle  face. 

"  The  horse  is  a  mile  or  so  further  up  towards  the  foot- 
hills. Come  along." 

They  galloped  side  by  side  over  the  moist,  springy  grass  — 
moist  with  the  recently-melted  snow.  "  Lord "  Bill  was 
content  to  wait  her  pleasure.  Suddenly  the  man  brought  his 
horse  up  with  a  severe  "  yank." 

"  What's  up?  "  The  girl's  beautiful  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  ground  with  a  peculiar  instinct.  Bill  pointed  to  the 
ground  on  the  side  furthest  from  his  companion. 

"Look!" 

Jacky  gazed  at  the  spot  indicated. 


ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG  71 

"  The  tracks  of  the  horse,"  she  said  sharply. 

She  was  on  the  ground  in  an  instant  and  inspecting  the 
hoof-prints  eagerly,  with  that  careful  study  acquired  by 
experience. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  other,  as  she  turned  back  to  her  horse. 

"  Recent."  Then  in  an  impressive  tone  which  her  com- 
panion failed  to  understand,  "  That  horse  has  been  shod. 
The  shoes  are  off  —  all  except  a  tiny  bit  on  his  off  fore. 
We  must  track  it." 

They  now  separated  and  rode  keeping  the  hoof-prints 
between  them.  The  marks  were  quite  fresh  and  so  plain 
in  the  soft  ground  that  they  were  able  to  ride  at  a  good 
pace.  The  clear-cut  indentations  led  away  from  the  mire 
up  the  gently-sloping  ground.  Suddenly  they  struck  upon 
a  path  thai  was  little  more  than  a  cattle-track,  and  instantly 
became  mingled  with  other  hoof -marks,  older  and  going 
both  ways.  Hitherto  the  girl  had  ridden  with  her  eyes 
closely  watching  the  tracks,  but  now  she  suddenly  raised  her 
sweet,  weather-tanned  face  to  her  companion,  and,  with  a 
light  of  the  wildest  excitement  in  her  eyes,  she  pointed  along 
the  path  and  set  her  horse  at  a  gallop. 

"  Come  on!  I  know,"  she  cried,  "  right  on  into  the  hills." 

Bill  followed  willingly  enough,  but  he  failed  to  under- 
stand his  companion's  excitement.  After  all  they  were 
merely  bent  upon  "  roping  "  a  stray  horse.  The  girl  galloped 
on  at  breakneck  speed;  the  heavy  black  ringlets  of  hair 
were  swept  like  an  outspread  fan  from  under  the  broad 
brim  of  her  Stetson  hat,  her  buckskin  bodice  ballooning  in 
the  wind  as  rider  and  horse  charged  along,  utterly  indifferent 
to  the  nature  of  the  country  they  were  traveling  —  indifferent 
to  everything  except  the  mad  pursuit  of  an  unseen  quarry. 
Now  they  were  on  the  summit  of  some  eminence  whence 
they  could  see  for  miles  the  confusion  of  hills,  like  innumer- 
able bee-hives  set  close  together  upon  an  endless  plain;  now 
down,  tearing  through  a  deep  hollow,  and  racing  towards 
another  abrupt  ascent.  With  every  hill  passed  the  country 
became  less  green  and  more  and  more  rugged.  "  Lord " 


72     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Bill  struggled  hard  to  keep  the  girl  in  view  as  she  raced  on 
—  on  through  the  labyrinth  of  seemingly  endless  hillocks. 
But  at  last  he  drew  up  on  the  summit  of  a  high  cone-like 
rise  and  realized  that  he  had  lost  her. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  around  with  that  peculiar,  all- 
observing  keenness  which  is  given  to  those  whose  lives  are 
spent  in  countries  where  human  habitation  is  sparse  —  where 
the  work  of  man  is  lost  in  the  immensity  of  Nature's  effort. 
He  could  see  no  sign  of  the  girl.  And  yet  he  knew  she 
could  not  be  far  away.  His  instincts  told  him  to  search 
for  her  horse  tracks.  He  was  sure  she  had  passed  that  way. 
While  yet  he  was  thinking,  she  suddenly  reappeared  over 
the  brow  of  a  further  hill.  She  halted  at  the  summit,  and, 
seeing  him,  waved  a  summons.  Her  gesticulations  were  ex- 
cited and  he  hastened  to  obey.  Down  into  the  intervening 
valley  his  horse  plunged  with  headlong  recklessness.  At  the 
bottom  there  was  a  hard,  beaten  track.  Almost  unconsciously 
he  allowed  his  beast  to  adopt  it.  It  wound  round  and  up- 
wards, at  the  base  of  the  hill  on  which  Jacky  was  waiting 
for  him.  He  passed  the  bend,  then,  with  a  desperate,  back- 
ward heave  of  the  body,  he  "  yanked  "  his  horse  short  up, 
throwing  the  eager  animal  on  to  its  haunches. 

He  had  pulled  up  on  what,  at  first  appeared  to  be  the 
brink  of  a  precipice,  and  what  in  reality  was  a  declivity, 
down  which  only  the  slow  and  sure  foot  of  a  steer  or  broncho 
might  safely  tread.  He  sat  aghast  at  his  narrow  escape. 
Then,  turning  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  behind  him,  he  found 
that  Jacky  had  come  down  from  the  hill  above. 

"  See,  Bill,"  she  cried,  as  she  drew  abreast  of  his  hard- 
breathing  horse,  "  there  he  is !  Down  there,  peacefully1 
grazing." 

Her  excitement  was  intense,  and  the  hand  with  which 
she  pointed  shook  like  an  aspen.  Her  agitation  was  in- 
comprehensible to  the  man.  He  looked  down.  Hitherto 
he  had  seen  little  beyond  the  brink  at  which  he  had  come 
to  such  a  sudden  stand.  But  now,  as  he  gazed  down,  he 
beheld  a  deep  dark-shadowed  valley,  far-reaching  and 


ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG  73 

sombre.  From  their  present  position  its  full  extent  was 
beyond  the  range  of  vision,  but  sufficient  was  to  be  seen  to 
realize  that  here  was  one  of  those  vast  hiding-places  only 
to  be  found  in  lands  where  Nature's  fanciful  mood  has 
induced  the  mighty  upheaval  of  the  world's  greatest  moun- 
tain ranges.  On  the  far  side  of  the  deep,  sombre  vale  a 
towering  craig  rose  wall-like,  sheer  up,  overshadowing  the 
soft,  green  pasture  deep  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  yawning 
gulch.  Dense  patches  of  dark,  relentless  pinewoods  lined 
its  base,  and,  over  all,  in  spite  of  the  broad  daylight,  a 
peculiar  shadow,  as  of  evening,  added  mystery  to  the  haunt- 
ing view. 

It  was  some  seconds  before  the  man  was  able  to  dis- 
tinguish the  tiny  object  which  had  roused  the  girl  to  such 
unaccountable  excitement  When  he  did,  however,  he 
beheld  a  golden  chestnut  horse  quietly  grazing  as  it  made 
its  way  leisurely  towards  the  ribbon-like  stream  which  flowed 
in  the  bosom  of  the  mysterious  valley.  "  Lord  "  Bill's  voice 
was  quite  emotionless  when  he  spoke. 

"Ah,  a  chestnut!  "  he  said  quietly.  "Well,  our  quest  is 
vain.  He  is  beyond  our  reach." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  looked  at  him  in  indignant  surprise. 
Then  her  mood  changed  and  she  nearly  laughed  outright. 
She  had  forgotten  that  this  man  as  yet  knew  nothing  of 
what  had  all  along  been  in  her  thoughts.  As  yet  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  secret  of  this  hollow.  To  her  it  meant  a 
world  of  recollection  —  a  world  of  stirring  adventure  and 
awful  hazard.  When  first  she  had  seen  that  horse,  grazing 
within  sight  of  her  uncle's  house,  her  interest  had  been 
aroused  —  suspicions  had  been  sent  teeming  through  her 
brain.  Her  thoughts  had  flown  to  the  man  whom  she  had 
once  known,  and  who  was  now  dead.  She  had  believed  his 
horse  had  died  with  him.  And  now  the  strange  apparition 
had  yielded  up  its  secret.  The  beast  had  been  traced  to  the 
old,  familiar  haunt,  and  what  had  been  only  suspicion  had 
suddenly  become  a  startling  reality. 

"  Ah,    I   forgot,"   she   replied,   "  you  don't  understand. 


74     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

That  is  Golden  Eagle.  Can't  you  see,  he  has  the  fragments 
of  his  saddle  still  tied  round  his  body.  To  think  of  it  — 
and  after  two  years." 

Her  companion  still  seemed  dense. 

"Golden  Eagle?"  he  repeated  questioningly.  "Golden 
Eagle  ?  "  The  name  seemed  familiar  but  he  failed  to  com- 
prehend. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  girl  broke  out  impatiently.  "  Golden 
Eagle  —  Peter  Retief 's  horse.  The  grandest  beast  that  ever 
stepped  the  prairie.  See,  he  is  keeping  watch  over  his 
master's  old  hiding-place  —  faithful  —  faithful  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead." 

"And  this  is  — is  the  haunt  of  Peter  Retief,"  Bill  ex- 
claimed, his  interest  centering  chiefly  upon  the  yawning 
valley  before  him. 

"  Yes  —  follow  me  closely,  and  we'll  get  right  along  down. 
Say,  Bill,  we  must  round  up  that  animal." 

For  a  fleeting  space  the  man  looked  dubious,  then,  with 
lips  pursed,  and  a  quiet  look  of  resolution  in  his  sleepy  eyes, 
he  followed  in  his  companion's  wake.  The  grandeur  — 
the  solitude  —  the  mystery  and  associations,  conveyed  by 
the  girl's  words,  of  the  place  were  upon  him.  These  things 
had  set  him  thinking. 

The  tortuous  course  of  that  perilous  descent  occupied  their 
full  attention,  but,  at  length,  they  reached  the  valley  in 
safety.  Now,  indeed,  was  a  wonderful  scene  disclosed. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the  great  hollow  extended.  Deep 
and  narrow;  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  hills  which  towered 
upon  either  side  to  heights,  for  the  most  part,  inaccessible, 
precipitous.  It  was  a  wondrous  gulch,  hidden  and  unsus- 
pected in  the  foothills,  and  protected  by  those  amazing  wilds, 
in  which  the  ignorant  or  unwary  must  infallibly  be  lost. 
It  was  a  perfect  pasture,  a  perfect  hiding-place,  watered 
by  a  broad  running  stream;  sheltered  from  all  cold  and 
storm.  No  wonder  then  that  the  celebrated  outlaw,  Peter 
Retief,  had  chosen  it  for  his  haunt  and  the  harborage  of  his 
ill-gotten  stock. 


ACROSS  THE  GREAT  MUSKEG  75 

With  characteristic  method  the  two  set  about  "  roping  " 
the  magnificent  crested  horse  they  had  come  to  capture. 
They  soon  found  that  he  was  wild  —  timid  as  a  hare.  Their 
task  looked  as  though  it  would  be  one  of  some  diffi- 
culty. 

At  first  Golden  Eagle  raced  recklessly  from  point  to  point. 
And  so  long  as  this  lasted  his  would-be  captors  could  do 
little  but  endeavor  to  "head"  him  from  one  to  the  other, 
in  the  hope  of  getting  him  within  range  of  the  rope.  Then 
he  seemed  suddenly  to  change  his  mind,  and,  with  a  quick 
double,  gallop  towards  the  side  of  the  great  chasm.  A  cry 
of  delight  escaped  the  girl  as  she  saw  this.  The  horse  was 
making  for  the  mouth  of  a  small  cavern  which  had  been 
boarded  over,  and,  judging  by  the  door  and  window  in  the 
woodwork,  had  evidently  been  used  as  a  dwelling  or  a  stable. 
It  was  the  same  instinct  which  led  him  to  this  place  that  had 
caused  the  liorse  to  remain  for  two  years  the  solitary  tenant 
of  the  valley.  The  girl  understood,  and  drew  her  com- 
panion's attention.  The  capture  at  once  became  easy. 
Keeping  clear  of  the  cave  they  cautiously  herded  their  quarry 
towards  it.  Golden  Eagle  was  docile  enough  until  he 
reached  the,  to  him,  familiar  door.  Then,  when  he  found 
that  his  pursuers  still  continued  to  press  in  upon  him,  he 
took  alarm,  and,  throwing  up  his  head,  with  a  wild,  de- 
fiant snort  he  made  a  bolt  for  the  open. 

Instantly  two  lariats  whirled  through  the  air  towards  the 
crested  neck.  One  missed  its  mark,  but  the  other  fell,  true 
as  a  gun-shot  over  the  small,  thoroughbred  head.  It  was 
Jacky's  rope  which  had  found  its  mark.  A  hitch  round  the 
horn  of  her  saddle,  and  her  horse  threw  himself  back  with 
her  forefeet  braced,  and  faced  the  captive.  Then  the  rope 
tightened  with  a  jerk  which  taxed  its  rawhide  strands  to 
their  utmost.  Instantly  Golden  Eagle,  after  two  years' 
freedom,  stood  still;  he  knew  that  once  more  he  must  re- 
turn to  captivity. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TOLD    IN    BAD    MAN'S    HOLLOW 

JACKY  held  her  treasure  fast.  The  choking  grip  of  the 
running  noose  quieted  Golden  Eagle  into  perfect  docility. 
Bunning-Ford  was  off  his  horse  in  a  moment.  Approaching 
the  primitive  dwelling  he  forced  open  the  crazy  door.  It 
was  a  patchwork  affair  and  swung  back  on  a  pair  of  hinges 
which  lamented  loudly  as  the  accumulation  of  rust  were 
disturbed.  The  interior  was  essentially  suggestive  of  the 
half-breed,  and  his  guess  at  its  purpose  had  been  a  shrewd 
one.  Part  storehouse  for  forage,  part  bedroom,  and  part 
stable,  it  presented  a  squalid  appearance.  The  portion 
devoted  to  stable-room  was  far  in  the  back;  the  curious 
apparatus  which  constituted  the  bed  was  placed  under  the 
window. 

The  man  propped  the  door  open,  and  then  went  to  re- 
lieve the  girl  from  the  strain  of  holding  her  captive.  Seizing 
the  lariat  he  gripped  it  tightly  and  proceeded  to  pass  slowly, 
hand  over  hand,  towards  the  beautiful,  wild-eyed  chestnut. 
Golden  Eagle  seemed  to  understand,  for,  presently,  the  ten- 
sion of  the  rope  relaxed.  For  a  moment  the  animal  looked 
fearfully  around  and  snorted,  then,  as  "  Lord  "  Bill  deter- 
minedly attempted  to  lead  him,  he  threw  himself  backward. 
His  rebellion  lasted  but  for  an  instant,  for,  presently,  droop- 
ing his  proud  head  as  though  in  token  of  submission,  he  fol- 
lowed his  captor  quietly  into  the  stable  which  had  always 
been  his. 

The  girl  dismounted,  and,  shortly  after,  "Lord"  Bill 
rejoined  her. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  asked,  her  questioning  eyes  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  cave. 

76 


TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW  77 

"  He's  snug  enough,"  Bill  replied  quietly,  glancing  at  his 
watch.  He  looked  up  at  the  chilly  sky,  then  he  seated  him- 
self on  the  edge  of  a  boulder  which  reposed  beside  the  en- 
trance to  the  stable.  "  We've  just  got  two  hours  and  a  half 
before  dark,"  he  added  slowly.  "  That  means  an  hour  in 
which  to  talk."  Then  he  quietly  prepared  to  roll  a  cigarette. 
"  Now,  Jacky,  let's  have  your  yarn  first;  after  that  you  shall 
hear  mine." 

He  leisurely  proceeded  to  pick  over  the  tobacco  before 
rolling  it  in  the  paper.  He  was  usually  particular  about  his 
smoke.  He  centered  his  attention  upon  the  matter  now, 
purposely,  so  as  to  give  his  companion  a  chance  to  tell  her 
story  freely.  He  anticipated  that  what  she  had  to  tell  would 
affect  her  nearly.  But  his  surmise  of  the  direction  in  which 
she  would  be  affected  proved  totally  incorrect.  Her  first 
words  told  him  this. 

She  hesitated  only  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  then  she 
plunged  into  her  story  with  a  directness  which  was  always 
hers. 

"This  is  Bad  Man's  Hollow  —  he  —  he  was  my  half- 
brother." 

So  the  stories  of  the  gossips  were  not  true.  Bill  gave  a 
comprehensive  nod,  but  offered  no  comment.  Her  state- 
ment appeared  to  him  to  need  none.  It  explained  itself; 
she  was  speaking  of  Peter  Retief. 

"  Mother  was  a  widow  when  she  married  father  —  widow 
with  one  son.  Mother  was  a  half-breed." 

An  impressive  silence  ensued.  For  a  moment  a  black 
shadow  swept  across  the  valley.  It  was  a  dense  flight  of 
geese  winging  their  way  back  to  the  north,  as  the  warm 
sun  melted  the  snow  and  furnished  them  with  well-watered 
feeding-grounds.  The  frogs  were  chirruping  loudly  down 
at  the  edge  of  the  stream  which  trickled  its  way  ever  south- 
wards. She  went  on. 

"  Mother  and  Peter  settled  at  Foss  River  at  different  times. 
They  never  hit  it  off.  No  one  knew  that  there  was  any 
relationship  between  them  up  at  the  camp.  Mother  lived 


78      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

in  her  own  shack.  Peter  located  himself  elsewhere.  Guess 
it's  only  five  years  since  I  learned  these  things.  Peter  was 
fifteen  years  older  than  I.  I  take  it  they  made  him  *  bad ' 
from  the  start.  Poor  Peter!  —  still,  he  was  my  half-brother." 

She  conveyed  a  world  of  explanation  in  her  last  sentence. 
There  was  a  tender,  far-away  look  in  her  great,  sorrowful 
eyes  as  she  told  her  jerky  story.  "  Lord  "  Bill  allowed 
himself  a  side-long  glance  in  her  direction,  then  he  turned 
his  eyes  towards  the  south  end  of  the  valley  and  something 
very  like  a  sigh  escaped  him.  She  had  struck  a  sympa- 
thetic chord  in  his  heart.  He  longed  to  comfort  her. 

"  There's  no  use  in  reckoning  up  Peter's  acts.  You  know 
'em  as  well  as  I  do,  Bill.  He  was  slick  —  was  Peter,"  she 
went  on,  with  an  inflection  of  satisfaction.  She  was  re- 
turning to  a  lighter  manner  as  she  contemplated  the  cattle- 
thief's  successes.  "  Cattle,  mail-trains,  mail-carts  —  nothing 
came  amiss  to  him.  In  his  own  line  Peter  was  a  Jo-dandy." 
Her  face  flushed  as  she  proceeded.  The  half-breed  blood 
in  her  was  stirred  in  all  its  passionate  strength.  "  But  he'd 
never  have  slipped  the  coyote  sheriffs  or  the  slick  red-coats 
so  long  as  he  did  without  my  help.  Say,  Bill,"  leaning 
forward  eagerly  and  peering  into  his  face  with  her  beautiful 
glowing  eyes,  "  for  three  years  I  just  —  just  lived !  Poor 
Peter!  Guess  I'm  reckoned  kind  of  handy  'round  a  bunch 
of  steers.  There  aren't  many  who  can  hustle  me.  You 
know  that.  All  the  boys  on  the  round-up  know  that.  And 
why?  Because  I  learnt  the  business  from  Peter  —  and  Peter 
taught  me  to  shoot  quick  and  straight.  Those  three  years 
taught  me  a  deal,  and  I  take  it  those  things  didn't  happen  for 
nothing,"  with  a  moody  introspective  gaze.  "  Those  years 
taught  me  how  to  look  after  myself  —  and  my  uncle.  Say, 
Bill,  what  I'm  telling  you  may  sicken  you  some.  I  can't 
help  that.  Peter  was  my  brother  and  blood's  thicker  than 
water.  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him  be  hunted  down  by  a  lot 
of  bloodthirsty  coyotes  who  were  no  better  than  he.  I 
wasn't  going  to  let  my  mother's  flesh  feed  the  crows  from 
the  end  of  a  lariat.  I  helped  Peter  to  steer  clear  of  the  law 


TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW  79 

' — lynch  at  that  —  and  if  he  fell  at  last,  a  victim  to  the 
sucking  muck  of  the  muskeg,  it  was  God's  judgment  and  not 
man's  —  that's  good  enough  for  me.  I'd  do  it  all  again,  I 
guess,  if  —  if  Peter  were  alive." 

"  Peter  had  some  shooting  on  the  account  against  him," 
said  Bill,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  contemplation 
of  his  cigarette.  The  girl  smiled.  The  smile  hovered  for 
a  moment  round  her  mouth  and  eyes,  and  then  passed,  leaving 
her  sweet,  dark  face  bathed  in  the  shadow  of  regret.  She 
understood  the  drift  of  his  remark  but  in  no  way  resented 
it. 

"  No,  Bill,  I  steered  clear  of  that.  I'd  have  shot  to  save 
Peter,  but  it  never  came  to  that.  Whatever  shooting  Peter 
did  was  done  on  his  —  lonely.  I  jibbed  at  a  frolic  that 
meant  —  shooting.  Peter  never  let  me  dirty  my  hands  to 
that  extent.  Guess  I  just  helped  him  and  kept  him  posted. 
If  I'd  had  law,  they'd  have  called  me  accessory  after  the 
fact." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  pondered.  His  lazy  eyes  were  half-closed. 
He  looked  indifferent  but  his  thoughts  were  flowing  fast. 
This  girl's  story  had  given  a  fillup  to  a  wild  plan  which 
had  almost  unconsciously  found  place  in  his  active  brain. 
Now  he  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  was  astonished  at 
the  setness  of  its  expression.  She  reminded  him  of  those 
women  in  history  whose  deeds  had,  at  various  periods, 
shaken  the  foundations  of  empires.  There  was  a  deep, 
smouldering  fire  in  her  eyes,  for  which  only  the  native  blood 
in  her  veins  could  account.  Her  beautiful  face  was  clouded 
beneath  a  somber  shadow  which  is  so  often  accredited  as  a 
presage  of  tragedy.  Surely  her  expression  was  one  of  a 
great,  passionate  nature,  of  a  soul  capable  of  a  wondrous 
love,  or  a  wondrous  —  hate.  She  had  seated  herself  upon 
the  ground  with  the  careless  abandon  of  one  used  to  such 
a  resting-place.  Her  trim  riding-boots  were  displayed  from 
beneath  the  hem  of  her  coarse  dungaree  habit.  Her  Stetson 
hat  was  pushed  back  on  her  head,  leaving  the  broad  low 
forehead  exposed.  Her  black  waving  hair  streamed  about 


80      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

her  face,  a  perfect  framing  for  the  Van  Dyke  coloring  of 
her  skin.  She  was  very  beautiful. 

The  man  shifted  his  position. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  went  on,  gazing  over  towards  where  a  flock 
of  wild  ducks  had  suddenly  settled  upon  a  reedy  swamp,  and 
were  noisily  revelling  in  the  water,  "  did  your  uncle  know 
anything  about  this?  " 

"Not  a  soul  on  God's  earth  knew.  Did  you  ever  sus- 
pect anything?  " 

Bill  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  a  thing.  I  was  as  well  posted  on  the  subject  of 
Peter  as  any  one.  Sometimes  I  thought  it  curious  that  old 
John's  stock  and  my  own  were  never  interfered  with.  But 
I  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  Peter's  relationship  to  your 
mother  —  did  the  Breeds  in  the  settlement  know  anything 
of  it?" 

"  No  —  I  alone  knew." 

"Ah!" 

The  girl  looked  curiously  into  her  companion's  face.  The 
tone  of  his  exclamation  startled  her.  She  wondered  towards 
what  end  his  questions  were  leading.  His  face  was  inscrut- 
able; she  gained  no  inspiration  from  it.  There  was  a  short 
pause.  She  wondered  anxiously  how  her  story  had  affected 
him  in  regard  to  herself.  After  all,  she  was  only  a  woman 
—  a  woman  of  strong  affections  and  deep  feelings.  Her 
hardihood,  her  mannish  self-reliance,  were  but  outer  cover- 
ings, the  result  of  the  surroundings  of  her  daily  life.  She 
feared  lest  he  should  turn  from  her  in  utter  loathing. 

The  Hon.  Bunning-Ford  had  no  such  thoughts,  however. 
Twenty-four  hours  ago  her  story  might  have  startled  him. 
But  now  it  was  different.  His  was  as  wild  and  reckless  a 
nature  as  her  own.  Law  and  order  were  matters  which  he 
regarded  in  the  light  of  personal  inclinations.  He  had  seen 
too  much  of  the  early  life  on  the  prairie  to  be  horrified  by 
the  part  this  courageous  girl  had  taken  in  her  blood-relative's 
interests.  Under  other  circumstances  "  Lord "  Bill  might 
well  have  developed  into  a  "  bad  man  "  himself.  As  it  was, 


TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW  81 

his  sympathies  were  always  with  those  whose  daring  led 
them  into  ways  of  danger  and  risk  of  personal  safety. 

"  How  far  does  this  valley  extend  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly, 
stepping  over  as  though  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  southern 
extremity  of  the  mysterious  hollow. 

"  Guess  we  reckoned  it  300  miles.  Dead  straight  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountains,  then  out  again  sharply  into  the 
foot-hills  thirty  miles  south  of  the  border.  It  comes  to  an 
end  in  Montana." 

"  And  Peter  disposed  of  his  stock  that  way  —  all  by  him- 
self ?  "  he  asked,  returning  to  his  seat  upon  the  boulder. 

"  All  by  himself,"  the  girl  repeated,  again  wondering  at 
the  drift  of  his  questions.  "  My  help  only  extended  as  far 
as  this  place.  Peter  used  to  fatten  his  stock  right  here  and 
then  run  them  down  into  Montana.  Down  there  no  one 
knew  where  he  came  from,  and  so  wonderfully  is  this  place 
hidden  that  he  was  never  traced.  There  is  only  one  approach 
to  it,  and  that's  across  the  keg.  In  winter  that  can  be  crossed 
anywhere,  but  no  sane  persons  would  trust  themselves  in 
the  foothills  at  that  time  of  year.  For  the  rest  it  can  only 
be  crossed  by  the  secret  path.  This  valley  is  a  perfectly- 
hidden  natural  road  for  illicit  traffic." 

"  Wonderful."  The  man  permitted  a  smile  to  spread 
over  his  thin,  eagle  face.  "  Peter's  supposed  to  have  made  a 
pile  of  money." 

"  Yes,  I  guess  Peter  sunk  a  pile  of  dollars.  He  hid  his 
bills  right  here  in  the  valley,"  Jacky  replied,  smiling  back 
into  the  indolent  face  before  her.  Then  her  face  became 
serious  again.  "The  secret  of  its  hiding-place  died  with 
him  —  it's  buried  deep  down  in  the  reeking  keg." 

"  And  you're  sure  he  died  in  the  *  reeking  keg  '  ?  "  There 
was  a  sharp  intonation  in  the  question.  The  matter  Deemed 
to  be  of  importance  in  the  story. 

Jacky  half  started  at  the  eagerness  with  which  the  ques- 
tion was  put.  She  paused  for  an  instant  before  replying. 

"  I  believe  he  died  there,"  she  said  at  length,  like  one 
weighing  her  words  well,  "  but  it  was  never  clearly  proved. 


82     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Most  people  think  that  he  simply  cleared  out  of  the  country. 
I  picked  up  his  hat  close  beside  the  path,  and  the  crust  of 
the  keg  had  been  broken.  Yes,  I  believe  he  died  in  the 
muskeg.  Had  he  lived  I  should  have  known." 

"  But  how  comes  it  that  Golden  Eagle  is  still  alive? 
Surely  Peter  would  never  have  crossed  the  keg  on  foot." 

The  girl  looked  perplexed  for  a  moment.  But  her  con- 
viction was  plainly  evident. 

"  No  —  he  wouldn't  have  walked.    Peter  drank  some." 

"  I  see." 

"  Once  I  saved  him  from  taking  the  wrong  track  at  the 
point  where  the  path  forks.  He'd  been  drinking  then. 
Yes,"  with  a  quiet  assurance,  "  I  think  he  died  in  the  keg." 

Her  companion  seemed  to  have  come  to  the  end  of  his 
cross-examination.  He  suddenly  rose  from  his  seat.  The 
chattering  of  the  ducks  in  the  distance  caused  him  to  turn 
his  head.  Then  he  turned  again  to  the  girl  before  him. 
The  indolence  had  gone  from  his  eyes.  His  face  was  set, 
and  the  firm  pursing  of  his  lips  spoke  of  a  determination 
arrived  at.  He  gazed  down  at  the  recumbent  figure  upon 
the  ground.  There  was  something  in  his  gaze  which  made 
the  girl  lower  her  eyes  and  look  far  out  down  the  valley. 

"This  brother  of  yours  —  he  was  tall  and  thin?  " 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  Am  I  right  in  my  recollection  of  him  when  I  say  that 
he  was  possessed  of  a  dark,  dark  face,  lantern  jaws,  thin  — 
and  high,  prominent  cheek-bones?" 

"That's  so." 

She  faced  him  inquiringly  as  she  answered  his  eager  ques- 
tions. 

"Ah!" 

He  quickly  turned  again  in  the  direction  of  the  noisy 
water-fowl.  Their  rollicking  gambols  sounded  joyously 
on  the  brooding  atmosphere  of  the  place.  The  wintry  chill 
in  the  air  was  fast  ousting  the  balmy  breath  of  spring.  It 
was  a  warning  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  he  went  on  presently,  turning  again 


TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW  83 

from  the  contemplation  of  his  weird  surroundings.  "  I  lost 
all  that  was  left  to  me  from  the  wreck  of  my  little  ranch  this 
afternoon  —  no,  not  to  Lablache,"  as  the  girl  was  about  to 
pronounce  the  hated  name,  "  but,"  with  a  wintry  smile,  "  to 
another  friend  of  yours,  Pedro  Mancha.  I  also  discovered, 
this  afternoon,  the  source  of  Lablache's  phenomenal  —  luck. 
He  has  systematically  robbed  both  your  uncle  and  myself  — " 
He  broke  off  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

"My  God!" 

The  girl  had  sprung  to  her  feet  in  her  agitation.  And  a 
rage  indescribable  flamed  into  her  face.  The  fury  there  ex- 
pressed appalled  him,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment  waiting 
for  it  to  abate.  What  terrible  depths  had  he  delved  into? 
The  hidden  fires  of  a  passionate  nature  are  more  easily  kept 
under  than  checked  in  their  blasting  career  when  once  the 
restraining  will  power  is  removed.  For  an  instant  it  seemed 
that  she  must  choke.  Then  she  hurled  her  feelings  into  one 
brief,  hissing  sentence. 

"Lablache  — I  hate  him!" 

And  the  man  realized  that  he  must  continue  his  story. 

"  Yes,  we  lost  our  money  not  fairly,  but  by  —  cheating. 
I  am  ruined,  and  your  uncle — "  Bill  shrugged. 

"My  uncle —  God  help  him!  " 

"  I  do  not  know  the  full  extent  of  his  losses,  Jacky  —  ex- 
cept that  they  have  probably  trebled  mine." 

"  But  I  know  to  what  extent  the  hound  has  robbed  him," 
Jacky  answered  in  a  tone  of  such  bitter  hatred  as  to  cause 
her  companion  to  glance  uneasily  at  the  passionate  young 
face  before  him.  "  I  know,  only  too  well.  And  right 
thoroughly  has  Lablache  done  his  work.  Say,  Bill,  do  you 
know  that  that  skunk  holds  mortgages  on  our  ranch  for 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars?  And  every  bill  of  it  is  for 
poker.  For  twenty  years,  right  through,  he  has  steadily 
sucked  the  old  man's  blood.  Slick?  Say  a  six-year-old 
steer  don't  know  more  about  a  branding-iron  than  does 
Verner  Lablache  about  his  business.  For  every  dollar 
uncle's  lost  he's  made  him  sign  a  mortgage.  Every  bit  of 


84      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

paper  has  the  old  man  had  to  redeem  in  that  way.  What 
he's  done  lately  —  I  mean  uncle  —  I  can't  say.  But  Lab- 
lache  held  those  mortgages  nearly  a  year  ago." 

"Whew—"  "Lord"  Bill  whistled  under  his  breath. 
"  Gee-whittaker.  It's  worse  than  I  thought.  *  Poker  ' 
John's  losses  during  the  last  winter,  to  my  knowledge,  must 
have  amounted  to  nearly  six  figures  —  the  devil !  " 

"  Ruin,  ruin,  ruin!  " 

The  girl  for  a  moment  allowed  womanly  feeling  to  over- 
come her,  for,  as  her  companion  added  his  last  item  to  the 
vast  sum  which  she  had  quoted,  she  saw,  in  all  its  horrible 
nakedness,  the  truth  of  her  uncle's  position.  Then  she  sud- 
denly forced  back  the  tears  which  had  struggled  into  her 
eyes,  and,  with  indomitable  courage,  faced  the  catastrophe. 

"  But  can't  we  fight  him  —  can't  we  give  him  — " 

"Law?  I'm  afraid  not,"  Bill  interrupted.  "Once  a 
mortgage  is  signed  the  debt  is  no  longer  a  gambling  debt. 
Law  is  of  no  use  to  us,  especially  here  on  the  prairie. 
There  is  only  one  law  which  can  save  us.  Lablache  must 
disgorge." 

"  Yes  —  yes!  For  every  dollar  he  has  stolen  let  him  pay 
ten." 

The  passionate  fire  in  her  eyes  burned  more  steadily  now. 
It  was  the  fire  which  is  unquenchable  —  the  fire  of  a  lasting 
hate,  vengeful,  terrible.  Then  her  tone  dropped  to  a  con- 
templative soliloquy. 

"But  how?"  she  murmured,  looking  away  towards  the 
stream  in  the  heart  of  the  valley,  as  though  in  search  of 
inspiration. 

Bunning-Ford  smiled  as  he  heard  the  half-whispered 
question.  But  his  smile  was  not  pleasant  to  look  upon. 
All  the  latent  recklessness  which  might  have  made  of  him 
a  good  soldier  or  a  great  scoundrel  was  roused  in  him.  He 
was  passing  the  boundary  which  divides  the  old  Adam, 
which  is  in  every  man,  from  the  veneer  of  early  training. 
He  was  mutely  —  unconsciously  —  calling  to  his  aid  the 
savage  instincts  which  the  best  of  men  are  not  without. 


TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW  85 

His  face  expressed  something  of  what  was  passing  within 
his  active  brain,  and  the  girl  before  him,  as  she  turned  and 
watched  the  working  features,  usually  so  placid  —  indifferent, 
knew  that  she  was  to  see  a  side  of  his  character  always  sus- 
pected by  her  but  never  before  made  apparent.  His  thoughts 
at  last  found  vent  in  words  of  almost  painful  intensity. 

"  How  ?  "  he  said,  repeating  the  question  as  though  it  had 
been  addressed  to  himself.  "He  shall  pay  —  pay!  Ever- 
lastingly pay !  So  long  as  I  have  life  —  and  liberty,  he  shall 
pay!"' 

Then  as  if  anticipating  a  request  for  explanation  he  told 
her  the  means  by  which  Lablache  had  consistently  cheated. 
The  girl  listened,  speechless  with  amazement.  She  hung 
upon  his  every  word.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  story  she 
put  an  abrupt  question. 

"And  you  gave  no  sign?  He  doesn't  suspect  that  you 
know?" 

"  He  suspects  nothing." 

"  Good.  You  are  real  smart,  Bill.  Yes,  shooting's  no 
good.  This  is  no  case  for  shooting.  What  do  you  pro- 
pose? I  see  you  mean  business." 

The  man  was  still  smiling  but  his  smile  had  suddenly 
changed  to  one  of  kindly  humor. 

"  First  of  all  Jacky,"  he  said,  taking  a  step  towards  her, 
"  I  can  do  nothing  without  your  help.  I  propose  that  you 
share  this  task  with  me.  No,  no,  I  don't  mean  in  that 
way,"  as  she  commenced  to  assure  him  of  her  assistance. 
"  What  I  mean  is  that  —  that  I  love  you,  dear.  I  want  you 
to  give  me  the  right  to  protect  —  your  uncle." 

He  finished  up  with  his  hands  stretched  out  towards  her. 
Golden  Eagle  stirred  in  his  stable,  and  the  two  heard  him 
whinny  as  if  in  approval.  Then  as  the  girl  made  no  answer 
Bill  went  on :  "  Jacky,  I  am  a  ruined  man.  I  have  nothing, 
but  I  love  you  better  than  life  itself.  We  now  have  a  com- 
mon purpose  in  life.  Let  us  work  together." 

His  voice  sank  to  a  tender  whisper.  He  loved  this 
motherless  girl  who  was  fighting  the  battle  of  life  single- 


86     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

handed  against  overwhelming  odds,  with  all  the  strength 
of  his  nature.  He  had  loved  her  ever  since  she  had  reached 
woman's  estate.  In  asking  for  a  return  of  his  affections 
now  he  fully  realized  the  cruelty  of  his  course.  He  knew 
that  the  future  —  his  future  —  was  to  be  given  up  to  the 
pursuit  of  a  terrible  revenge.  And  he  knew  that,  in  linking 
herself  with  him,  she  would  perforce  be  dragged  into  what- 
ever wrong-doing  his  contemplated  revenge  might  lead  him. 
And  yet  he  dared  not  pause.  It  all  seemed  so  plain  —  so 
natural  —  that  they  should  journey  through  the  crookecl 
paths  of  the  future  together.  Was  she  not  equally  deter- 
mined upon  a  terrible  revenge? 

He  waited  in  patience  for  his  answer.  Suddenly  she 
looked  up  into  his  face  and  gently  placed  her  hands  in  his. 
Her  answer  came  with  simple  directness. 

"  Do  you  really,  Bill  ?  I  am  glad  —  yes,  glad  right 
through.  I  love  you,  too.  Say,  you're  sure  you  don't  think 
badly  of  me  because  —  because  I'm  Peter's  sister?  " 

There  was  a  smiling,  half-tearful  look  in  her  eyes  —  those 
expressive  eyes  which,  but  a  moment  before,  had  burnt  with 
a  vengeful  fire  —  as  she  asked  the  question.  After  all  her 
nature  was  wondrously  simple. 

"Why  should  I,  dear?"  he  replied,  bending  and  kissing 
the  gauntleted  hands  which  rested  so  lovingly  in  his.  "  My 
life  has  scarcely  been  a  Garden  of  Eden  before  the  Fall. 
And  I  don't  suppose  my  future,  even  should  I  escape  the 
laws  of  man,  is  likely  to  be  most  creditable.  Your  past 
is  your  own  —  I  have  no  right  nor  wish  to  criticise.  Hence- 
forth we  are  united  in  a  common  cause.  Our  hand  is  turned 
against  one  whose  power  in  this  part  of  the  country  is  almost 
absolute.  When  we  have  wrested  his  property  from  him, 
to  the  uttermost  farthing,  we  will  cry  quits  — " 

"And  on  the  day  that  sees  Lablache's  downfall,  Bill,  I 
will  become  your  wife." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Bill  drew  her  towards  him  and 
they  sealed  the  compact  with  one  long  embrace.  They  were 
roused  to  the  matters  of  the  moment  by  another  whinny  from 


TOLD  IN  BAD  MAN'S  HOLLOW  87 

Golden  Eagle,  who  was  chafing  at  his  forced  imprisonment. 

The  two  stood  back  from  one  another,  hand  in  hand, 
and  smiled  as  they  listened  to  the  tuneful  plaint.  Then  the 
man  unfolded  a  wonderful  plan  to  this  girl  whom  he  loved. 
Her  willing  ears  drank  in  the  details  like  one  whose  heart 
is  set  with  a  great  purpose.  They  also  talked  of  their  love 
in  their  own  practical  way.  There  was  little  display  of 
sentiment.  They  understood  without  that.  Their  future 
was  not  alluring,  unless  something  of  the  man's  strange 
plan  appealed  to  the  wild  nature  of  the  prairie  which,  by 
association,  has  somehow  become  affiliated  with  theirs.  In 
that  quiet,  evening-lit  valley  these  two  people  arranged  to 
set  aside  the  laws  of  man  and  deal  out  justice  as  they 
understood  it.  An  eye  for  an  eye  —  a  tooth  for  a  tooth; 
fortune  favoring,  a  cent,  per  cent,  interest  in  each  case.  The 
laws  of  the  prairie,  in  those  days  always  uncertain,  were 
more  often  governed  by  human  passions  than  the  calm  equity 
of  unbiased  jurymen.  And  who  shall  say  that  their  idea 
of  justice  was  wrong?  Two  "wrongs,"  it  has  been  said, 
do  not  make  one  "  right."  But  surely  it  is  not  a  human 
policy  when  smote  upon  one  cheek  to  turn  the  other  for  a 
similar  chastisement. 

"  Then  we  leave  Golden  Eagle  where  he  is,"  said  Jacky, 
as  she  remounted  her  horse  and  they  prepared  to  return 
home. 

"  Yes.  I  will  see  to  him,"  Bill  replied,  urging  his  horse 
into  a  canter  towards  the  winding  ascent  which  was  to  take 
them  home. 

The  ducks  frolicking  in  their  watery  playground  chattered 
and  flapped  their  heavy  wings.  The  frogs  in  their  reedy 
beds  croaked  and  chirruped  without  ceasing.  And  who 
shall  say  how  much  they  had  heard,  or  had  seen,  or  knew 
of  that  compact  sealed  in  Bad  Man's  Hollow? 


CHAPTER  IX 


LABLACHE  was  seated  in  a  comfortable  basket  chair  in  his 
little  back  office.  He  preferred  a  basket  chair  —  he  knew 
its  value.  He  had  tried  other  chairs  of  a  less  yielding 
nature,  but  they  were  useless  to  support  his  weight;  he  had 
broken  too  many,  and  they  were  expensive  —  there  is  nothing 
more  durable  than  a  strong  basket  chair.  Lablache  appre- 
ciated strength  combined  with  durability,  especially  when 
the  initial  outlay  was  reduced  to  a  minimum. 

His  slippered  feet  were  posted  on  the  lower  part  of  the 
self-feeding  stove  and  he  gazed  down,  deep  in  thought,  at 
the  lurid  glow  of  the  fire  shining  through  the  mica  sides  of 
the  fire-box. 

A  clock  was  ticking  away  with  that  peculiar,  vibrating 
aggressiveness  which  characterizes  the  cheap  American 
"  alarm."  The  bare  wood  of  the  desk  aggravated  the  sound, 
and,  in  the  stillness  of  the  little  room,  the  noise  pounded 
exasperatingly  on  the  ear-drums.  From  time  to  time  he 
turned  his  great  head,  and  his  lashless  eyes  peered  over  at 
the  paper  dial  of  the  clock.  Once  or  twice  he  stirred  with 
a  suggestion  of  impatience.  At  times  his  heavy  breathing 
became  louder  and  shorter,  and  he  seemed  about  to  give 
expression  to  some  irritable  thought. 

At  last  his  bulk  heaved  and  he  removed  his  feet  from 
the  stove.  Then  he  slowly  raised  himself  from  the  depths 
of  the  yielding  chair.  His  slippered  feet  shuffled  over  the 
floor  as  he  moved  towards  the  window.  The  blind  was 
down,  but  he  drew  it  aside  and  wiped  the  steam  from  the 
glass  pane  with  his  soft,  fat  hand.  The  night  was  black  — 

88 


LABLACHE'S  "  COUP  "  89 

he  could  see  nothing  of  the  outside  world.  It  was  nearly 
an  hour  since  he  had  left  the  saloon  where  he  had  been 
playing  poker  with  John  Allandale.  He  appeared  to  be 
waiting  for  some  one,  and  he  wanted  to  go  to  bed. 

Cnce  more  he  returned  to  his  complaining  chair  and 
lowered  himself  into  it.  The  minutes  slipped  by.  Lablache 
did  not  want  to  smoke;  he  felt  that  he  must  do  something 
to  soothe  his  impatience,  so  he  chewed  at  the  quicks  of  his 
finger-nails. 

Presently  there  came  a  tap  at  the  window.  The  money- 
lender ponderously  rose,  and,  cautiously  opening  the  door, 
admitted  the  dark,  unkempt  form  of  Pedro  Mancha.  There 
was  no  greeting;  neither  spoke  until  Lablache  had  again 
secured  the  door.  Then  the  money-lender  turned  his  fishy 
eyes  and  mask-like  face  to  the  newcomer.  He  did  not  sug- 
gest that  his  visitor  should  sit  down.  He  merely  looked 
with  his  cold,  cruel  eyes,  and  spoke. 

"Well?  — been  drinking." 

The  latter  part  of  his  remark  was  an  assertion.  He  knew 
the  Mexican  well.  The  fellow  had  an  expressive  counte- 
nance, unlike  most  of  his  race,  and  the  least  sign  of  drink 
was  painfully  apparent  upon  it.  The  man  was  not  drunk 
but  his  wild  eyes  testified  to  his  recent  libations. 

"  Guess  you've  hit  it  right  thar,"  he  retorted  indifferently. 

It  was  noticeable  that  this  man  had  adopted  the  high- 
pitched,  keen  tone  and  pronounced  accent  of  the  typical 
"  South- Westerner."  In  truth  he  was  a  border  Mexican;  a 
type  of  man  closely  allied  to  the  "  greaser."  He  was  a  per- 
fect scoundrel,  who  had  doubtless  departed  from  his  native 
land  for  the  benefit  of  that  fair  but  swarming  hornet's  nest. 

"  It's  a  pity  when  you  have  business  on  hand  you  can't 
leave  that  *  stuff '  alone." 

Lablache  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  contempt.  He 
even  allowed  his  mask-like  face  to  emphasize  his  words. 

"  You're  almighty  pertickler,  mister.  You  ask  for  dirty 
work  to  be  done,  an'  when  that  dirty  work's  done,  gorl- 
darn-it  you  croak  like  a  flannel-mouthed  temperance  lee- 


90     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

turer.  Guess  I  came  hyar  to  talk  straight  biz.  Jest  leave 
the  temperance  track,  an*  hit  the  main  trail." 

Pedro's  face  was  not  pretty  to  look  upon.  The  ring  of 
white  round  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  gave  an  impression  of 
insanity  or  animal  ferocity.  The  latter  was  his  chief  char- 
acteristic. His  face  was  thin  and  scored  with  scars,  mainly 
long  and  narrow.  These,  in  a  measure,  testified  to  his  past. 
His  mouth,  half  hidden  beneath  a  straggling  mustache,  was 
his  worst  feature.  One  can  only  liken  it  to  a  blubber-lipped 
gash,  lined  inside  with  two  rows  of  yellow  fangs,  all  in  a 
more  or  less  bad  state  of  decay. 

The  two  men  eyed  one  another  steadily  for  a  moment. 
Lablache  could  in  no  way  terrorize  this  desperado.  Like 
all  his  kind  this  man  was  ready  to  sell  his  services  to  any 
master,  provided  the  forthcoming  price  of  such  services 
was  sufficiently  exorbitant.  He  was  equally  ready  to  play 
his  employer  up  should  any  one  else  offer  a  higher  price. 
But  Lablache,  when  dealing  with  such  men,  took  no 
chances.  He  rarely  employed  this  sort  of  man,  preferring 
to  do  his  own  dirty  work,  but  when  he  did,  he  knew  it  was 
policy  to  be  liberal.  Pedro  served  him  well  as  a  rule,  con- 
sequently the  Mexican  was  enabled  to  ruffle  it  with  the  best 
in  the  settlement,  whilst  people  wondered  where  he  got  his 
money  from.  Somehow  they  never  thought  of  Lablache  be- 
ing the  source  of  this  man's  means;  the  money-lender  was 
not  fond  of  parting. 

"  You  are  right,  I  am  particular.  When  I  pay  for  work 
to  be  done  I  don't  want  gassing  over  a  bar.  I  know  what 
you  are  when  the  whisky  is  in  you." 

Lablache  stood  with  his  great  back  to  the  fire  watching 
his  man  from  beneath  his  heavy  lids.  Bad  as  he  was  him- 
self the  presence  of  this  man  filled  him  with  loathing.  Pos- 
sibly deep  down,  somewhere  in  that  organ  he  was  pleased 
to  consider  his  heart,  he  had  a  faint  glimmer  of  respect  for 
an  honest  man.  The  Mexican  laughed  harshly. 

"  Guess  all  you  know  of  me,  mister,  wouldn't  make  a 
pile  o'  literature.  But  say,  what's  the  game  to-night  ?  " 


LABLACHE'S  "  COUP  "  91 

Lablache  was  gnawing  his  fingers. 

"  How  much  did  you  take  from  the  Honorable? "  he 
asked  sharply. 

"You  told  me  to  lift  his  boodle.  Time  was  short  —  he 
wouldn't  play  for  long." 

"  I'm  aware  of  that.     How  much  ?  " 

Lablache's  tone  was  abrupt  and  peremptory.  Mancha 
was  trying  to  estimate  what  he  should  be  paid  for  his 
work. 

"  See  hyar,  I  guess  we  ain't  struck  no  deal  yet.  What 
do  you  propose  to  pay  me?  " 

The  Mexican  was  sharp  but  he  was  no  match  for  his 
employer.  He  fancied  he  saw  a  good  deal  over  this  night's 
work. 

"  You  played  on  paper,  I  know,"  said  the  money-lender, 
quietly.  He  was  quite  unmoved  by  the  other's  display  of 
cunning.  It  pleased  him  rather  than  otherwise.  He  knew 
he  held  all  the  cards  in  his  hands  —  he  generally  did  in 
dealing  with  men  of  this  stamp.  "To  you,  the  amounts 
he  lost  are  not  worth  the  paper  they  are  written  on.  You 
could  never  realize  them.  He  couldn't  meet  'em." 

Lablache  leisurely  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  his  snuff- 
box. He  coughed  and  sneezed  voluminously.  His  indif- 
ferent coolness,  his  air  of  patronage,  aggravated  the  Mexican 
while  it  alarmed  him.  The  deal  he  anticipated  began  to 
assume  lesser  proportions. 

"  Which  means,  I  take  it,  you've  a  notion  you'd  like  the 
feel  of  those  same  papers." 

Mancha  had  come  to  drive  a  bargain.  He  was  aware  that 
the  I.O.U.'s  he  held  would  take  some  time  to  realize  on,  in 
the  proper  quarter,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  quite 
aware  of  the  fact  that  Bunning-Ford  would  ultimately  meet 
them. 

Lablache  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  apparent  indiffer- 
ence—  he  meant  to  have  them. 

"What  do  you  want  for  the  debts?  I  am  prepared  to 
buy  —  at  a  reasonable  figure." 


92     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  Mexican  propped  himself  comfortably  upon  the  cor- 
ner of  the  desk. 

"  Say,  guess  we're  talkin'  biz,  now.  His  *  lordship '  is 
due  to  ante  up  the  trifle  of  seven  thousand  dollars  — " 

The  fellow  was  rummaging  in  an  inside  pocket  for  the 
slips  of  paper.  His  eyes  never  left  his  companion's  face. 
The  amount  startled  Lablache,  but  he  did  not  move  a 
muscle. 

"  You  did  your  work  well,  Pedro,"  he  said,  allowing  him- 
self, for  the  first  time  in  this  conversation,  to  recognize  that 
the  Mexican  had  a  name.  He  warmed  towards  a  man  who 
was  capable  of  doing  another  down  for  such  a  sum  in  such 
a  short  space  of  time.  "  I'll  treat  you  well.  Two  thousand 
spot  cash,  and  you  hand  over  the  I.O.U.'s.  What  say?  Is 
it  a  go?" 

"  Be  damned  to  you.  Two  thousand  for  a  certain  seven  ? 
Not  me.  Say,  what  d'ye  do  with  the  skin  when  you  eat  a 
bananny?  Sole  your  boots  with  it?  Gee-whiz!  You  do 
fling  your  bills  around." 

The  Mexican  laughed  derisively  as  he  jammed  the  papers 
back  into  his  pocket.  But  he  knew  that  he  would  have  to 
sell  at  the  other's  price. 

Lablache  moved  heavily  towards  his  desk.  Selecting  a 
book  he  opened  it  at  a  certain  page. 

".You  can  keep  them  if  you  like.  But  you  may  as  well 
understand  your  position.  What's  Bunning-Ford  worth? 
What's  his  ranch  worth?  " 

The  other  suggested  a  figure  much  below  the  real  value. 

"  It's  worth  more  than  that.  Fifty  thousand  if  it's  worth 
a  cent,"  Lablache  said  expansively.  "  I  don't  want  to  do 
you,  my  friend,  but  as  you  said  we're  talking  business  now. 
Here  is  his  account  with  me,  you  see,"  pointing  to  the 
entries.  "  I  hold  thirty-five  thousand  on  first  mortgage 
and  twenty  thousand  on  bill  of  sale.  In  all  fifty-five  thou- 
sand, and  his  interest  twelve  months  in  arrears.  Now,  you 
refuse  to  part  with  those  papers  at  my  price,  and  I'll  sell  him 
up.  You  will  then  get  not  one  cent  of  your  money." 


LABLACHE'S  "  COUP  "  93 

The  money-lender  permitted  himself  to  smile  a  grim, 
cold  smile.  He  had  been  careful  to  make  no  mention  of 
Bunning-Ford's  further  assets.  He  had  quite  forgotten  to 
speak  of  a  certain  band  of  cattle  which  he  knew  his  in- 
tended victim  to  possess.  It  was  a  well-known  thing  that 
Lablache  knew  more  of  the  financial  affairs  of  the  people  of 
the  settlement  than  any  one  else;  doubtless  the  Mexican 
thought  only  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  ranch.  Mancha  shifted  his 
position  uneasily.  But  there  was  a  cunning  look  on  his  face 
as  he  retorted  swiftly, — 

"  You're  a'mighty  hasty  to  lay  your  hands  on  his  reckoning. 
How's  it  that  you're  ready  to  part  two  thou'  for  'em  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  as  the  two  men  eyed  each 
other.  It  seemed  as  if  each  were  endeavoring  to  fathom 
the  other's  thoughts.  Then  the  money-lender  spoke,  and 
his  voice  conveyed  a  concentration  of  hate  that  bit  upon 
the  air  with  an  incisiveness  which  startled  his  companion. 

"  Because  I  intend  to  crush  him  as  I  would  a  rattlesnake. 
Because  I  wish  to  ruin  him  so  that  he  will  be  left  in  my 
debt.  So  that  I  can  hound  him  from  this  place  by  holding 
that  debt  over  his  head.  It  is  worth  two  thousand  to  me 
to  possess  that  power.  Now,  will  you  part  ?  " 

This  explanation  appealed  to  the  worst  side  of  the  Mexi- 
can's nature.  This  hatred  was  after  his  own  heart.  La- 
blache was  aware  that  such  would  be  the  case.  That  is  why 
he  made  it.  He  was  accustomed  to  play  upon  the  feelings 
of  people  with  whom  he  dealt  —  as  well  as  their  pocket. 
Pedro  Mancha  grinned  complacently.  He  thought  he  un- 
derstood his  employer. 

"Hand  over  the  bills.  Guess  I'll  part.  The  price  is 
slim,  but  it's  not  a  bad  deal." 

Lablache  oozed  over  to  the  safe.  He  opened  it,  keeping 
one  heavy  eye  upon  his  companion.  He  took  no  chances 
—  he  trusted  no  one,  especially  Pedro  Mancha.  Presently 
he  returned  with  a  roll  of  notes.  It  contained  the  exact 
amount.  The  Mexican  watched  him  hungrily  as  he  counted 
out  the  green-backed  bills.  His  lips  moistened  beneath  his 


94     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

mustache  —  his  eyes  looked  wilder  than  ever.  Lablache  un- 
derstood his  customer  thoroughly.  A  loaded  revolver  was  in 
his  own  coat  pocket.  It  is  probable  that  the  brown-faced 
desperado  knew  this. 

At  last  the  money-lender  held  out  the  money.  He  held 
out  both  hands,  one  to  give  and  the  other  to  receive.  Pedro 
passed  him  the  I.O.U.'s  and  took  the  bills.  One  swift 
glance  assured  Lablache  that  the  coveted  papers  were  all 
there.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Our  transaction  is  over.     Go!  " 

He  had  had  enough  of  his  companion.  He  had  no  hesita- 
tion in  thus  peremptorily  dismissing  him. 

"You're  in  a  pesky  hurry  to  get  rid  of  me.  See  hyar, 
pard,  you'd  best  be  civiL  Your  dealin's  ain't  a  sight  cleaner 
than  mine." 

"  I'm  waiting."  Lablache's  tone  was  coldly  commanding. 
His  lashless  eyes  gazed  steadily  into  the  other's  face.  Some- 
thing the  Mexican  saw  in  them  impelled  him  towards  the 
door.  He  moved  backwards,  keeping  his  face  turned  to- 
wards the  money-lender.  At  this  moment  Lablache  was  at 
his  best.  His  was  a  dominating  personality.  There  was  no 
cowardice  in  his  nature  —  at  least  no  physical  cowardice. 
Doubtless,  had  it  come  to  a  struggle  where  agility  was  re- 
quired, he  would  have  fallen  an  easy  prey  to  his  lithe  com- 
panion; but  with  him,  somehow,  it  never  did  come  to  a 
struggle.  He  had  a  way  with  him  that  chilled  any  such 
thought  that  a  would-be  assailant  might  have.  Will  and 
unflinching  courage  are  splendid  assets.  And,  amongst 
others,  this  man  possessed  both. 

Mancha  slunk  back  to  the  door,  and,  fumbling  at  the  lock, 
opened  it  and  passed  out.  Lablache  instantly  whipped  out 
a  revolver,  and,  stepping  heavily  on  one  side,  advanced  to 
the  door,  paused  and  listened.  He  was  well  under  cover. 
The  door  was  open.  He  was  behind  it.  He  knew  better 
than  to  expose  himself  in  the  light  for  Mancha  to  make  a 
target  of  him  from  without.  Then  he  kicked  the  door  to. 
Making  a  complete  circuit  of  the  walls  of  the  office  he  came 


LABLACHE'S  "  COUP  "  95 

to  the  opposite  side  of  the  door,  where  he  swiftly  locked  and 
bolted  it.  Then  he  drew  an  iron  shutter  across  the  light 
panelling  and  secured  it 

"  Good,"  he  muttered,  as,  sucking  in  a  heavy  breath,  he 
returned  to  the  stove  and  turned  his  back  to  it  "  It's  as 
well  to  understand  Mexican  nature." 

Then  he  lounged  into  his  basket  chair  and  rubbed  his 
fleshy  hands  reflectively.  There  was  a  triumphant  look  upon 
his  repulsive  features. 

"  Quite  right,  friend  Pedro,  it's  not  a  bad  deal,"  he 
said  to  himself,  blinking  at  the  red  light  of  the  fire.  "  Not 
half  bad.  Seven  thousand  dollars  for  two  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  every  cent  of  it  realizable."  He  shook  with  in- 
ward mirth.  "  The  Hon.  William  Bunning-Ford  will  now 
have  to  disgorge  every  stick  of  his  estate.  Good, 
good!" 

Then  he  relapsed  into  deep  thought.  Presently  he  roused 
himself  from  his  reverie  and  prepared  for  bed. 

"  But  I'll  give  him  a  chance.  Yes,  I'll  give  him  a 
chance,"  he  muttered,  as,  after  undergoing  the  simple  opera- 
tion of  removing  his  coat,  he  stretched  himself  upon  his  bed 
and  drew  the  blankets  about  him.  "  If  he'll  consent  to 
renounce  any  claim,  fancied  or  otherwise,  he  may  have 
to  Joaquina  Allandale's  regard  I'll  refrain  from  selling  him 
up.  Yes,  Verner  Lablache  will  forego  his  money  —  for  a 
time." 

The  great  bed  shook  as  the  monumental  money-lender 
suppressed  a  chuckle.  Then  he  turned  over,  and  his 
stertorous  inhalations  soon  suggested  that  the  great  man 
slept. 

Shylock,  the  Jew,  determined  on  having  his  pound  of 
flesh.  But  a  woman  outwitted  him. 


CHAPTER  X 
"AUNT"  MARGARET  REFLECTS 

IT  was  almost  dark  when  Jacky  returned  to  the  ranch. 
She  had  left  "  Lord  "  Bill  at  the  brink  of  the  great  keg, 
whence  he  had  returned  to  his  own  place.  Her  first  thought, 
on  entering  the  house,  was  for  the  letter  which  she  had 
left  for  her  uncle.  It  was  gone.  She  glanced  round  the 
room  uncertainly.  Then  she  stood  gazing  into  the  stove, 
while  she  idly  drummed  with  her  gauntleted  fingers  upon 
the  back  of  a  chair.  She  had  as  yet  removed  neither  her 
Stetson  hat  nor  her  gauntlets. 

Her  strong,  dark  face  was  unusually  varying  in  its  ex- 
pression. Possibly  her  thoughts  were  thus  indexed.  Now, 
as  she  stood  watching  the  play  of  the  fire,  her  great,  deep 
eyes  would  darken  with  a  grave,  almost  anxious  expression; 
again  they  would  smile  with  a  world  of  untold  happiness 
in  their  depths.  Again  they  would  change,  in  a  flash,  to  a 
hard,  cold  gleam  of  hatred  and  unyielding  purpose;  then 
slowly,  a  tender  expression,  such  as  that  of  a  mother  for 
her  new-born  babe,  would  creep  into  them  and  shine  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  fire  with  a  world  of  sweet  sympathy. 
But  through  all  there  was  a  tight  compression  of  the  lips, 
which  spoke  of  the  earnest  purpose  which  governed  her 
thoughts;  a  slight  pucker  of  the  brows,  which  surely  told  of 
a  great  concentration  of  mind. 

Presently  she  roused  herself,  and,  walking  to  where  a 
table-bell  stood,  rang  sharply  upon  it.  Her  summons  was 
almost  immediately  answered  by  the  entry  of  a  servant. 

Jacky  turned  as  the  door  opened,  and  fired  an  abrupt 
question. 

"  Has  Uncle  John  been  in,  Mamie?  " 

96 


"  AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS  97 

The  girl's  face  had  resumed  its  usual  strong,  kindly  ex- 
pression. Whatever  was  hidden  behind  that  calm  exterior, 
she  had  no  intention  of  giving  a  chance  observer  any  clew 
to  it. 

"  No,  miss,"  the  servant  replied,  in  that  awestruck  tone 
which  domestics  are  apt  to  use  when  sharply  interrogated. 
She  was  an  intelligent-looking  girl.  Her  dark  skin  and 
coarse  black  hair  pronounced  her  a  half-breed.  Her  mis- 
tress had  said  "  blood  is  thicker  than  water."  All  the 
domestics  under  Jacky's  charge  hailed  from  the  half-breed 
camp. 

"  Was  my  message  delivered  to  him?  " 

Unconcernedly  as  she  spoke  she  waited  with  some  anxiety 
for  the  answer. 

"  Oh,  yes,  miss.  Silas  delivered  it  himself.  The  master 
was  in  company  with  Mr.  Lablache  and  the  doctor,'  miss," 
added  the  girl,  discreetly. 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  sent  Silas  for  the  letter,  miss." 

"  He  didn't  say  what  time  he  would  return,  I  suppose?  " 

"No,  miss — "  She  hesitated  and  fumbled  at  the  door 
handle. 

"Well?"  as  the  girl  showed  by  her  attitude  that  there 
was  something  she  had  left  unsaid. 

Jacky's  question  rang  acutely  in  the  quiet  room. 

"  Silas  — "  began  the  girl,  with  a  deprecating  air  of 
unbelief  — "  you  know  what  strange  notions  he  takes  —  he 
said—" 

The  girl  stopped  in  confusion  under  the  steady  gaze  of 
her  mistress. 

"  Speak  up,  girl,"  exclaimed  Jacky,  impatiently.  "  What 
is  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  miss,"  the  girl  blurted  out  desperately. 
"  Only  Silas  said  as  the  master  didn't  seem  well  like." 

"Ah!  That  will  do."  Then,  as  the  girl  still  stood  at 
the  door,  "  You  can  go." 

The  dismissal  was  peremptory,  and  the  half-breed  had 


98      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

no  choice  but  to  depart.  She  had  hoped  to  have  heard 
something  interesting,  but  her  mistress  was  never  given  to 
being  communicative  with  servants. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  half-breed  Jacky 
turned  again  towards  the  stove.  Again  she  was  plunged  in 
deep  thought.  This  time  there  could  be  no  mistake  as 
to  its  tenor.  Her  heart  was  racked  with  an  anxiety  which 
was  not  altogether  new  to  it.  The  sweet  face  was  pale 
and  her  eyelids  flickered  ominously.  The  servant's  veiled 
meaning  was  quite  plain  to  her.  Brave,  hardy  as  this  girl 
of  the  prairie  was,  the  fear  that  was  ever  in  her  heart  had 
suddenly  assumed  the  proportions  of  a  crushing  reality. 
She  loved  her  uncle  with  an  affection  that  was  almost 
maternal.  It  was  the  love  of  a  strong,  resolute  nature  for 
one  of  a  kindly  but  weak  disposition.  She  loved  the  gray- 
headed  old  man,  whose  affection  had  made  her  life  one 
long,  long  day  of  happiness,  with  a  tenderness  which  no 
recently-acquired  faults  of  his  could  alienate.  He  —  and 
now  another  —  was  her  world.  A  world  in  which  it  was 
her  joy  to  dwell.  And  now  —  now;  what  of  the  present? 
Racked  by  losses  brought  about  through  the  agency  of  his 
all-absorbing  passion,  the  weak  old  man  was  slowly  but 
surely  taking  to  drowning  his  consciousness  of  the  appalling 
calamity  which  he  had  consistently  set  to  work  to  bring 
about,  and  which  in  his  lucid  moments  he  saw  looming 
heavily  over  his  house,  in  drink.  She  had  watched  him 
with  the  never-failing  eye  of  love,  and  had  seen,  to  her 
horror,  the  signs  she  so  dreaded.  She  could  face  disaster 
stoically,  she  could  face  danger  unflinchingly,  but  this  moral 
wrecking  of  the  old  man,  who  had  been  more  to  her  than 
a  father,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  Two  great  tears 
welled  up  into  her  beautiful,  somber  eyes  and  slowly  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  She  bowed  like  a  willow  bending  to  the 
force  of  the  storm. 

Her  weakness  was  only  momentary,  however;  her  courage, 
bred  from  the  wildness  of  her  life  surroundings,  rose  superior 
to  her  feminine  weakness.  She  dashed  her  gloved  hands 


"  AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS  99 

across  her  eyes  and  wiped  the  tears  away.  She  felt  that 
she  must  be  doing  —  not  weeping.  Had  not  she  sealed  a 
solemn  compact  with  her  lover?  She  must  to  work  without 
delay. 

She  glanced  round  the  room.  Her  gaze  was  that  of  one 
who  wishes  to  reassure  herself.  It  was  as  if  the  old  life 
had  gone  from  her  and  she  was  about  to  embark  on  a  career 
new  —  foreign  to  her.  A  career  in  which  she  could  see  no 
future  —  only  the  present.  She  felt  like  one  taking  a  long 
farewell  to  a  life  which  had  been  fraught  with  nothing  but 
delight.  The  expression  of  her  face  told  of  the  pain  of  the 
parting.  With  a  heavy  sigh  she  passed  out  of  the  room 
—  out  into  the  chill  night  air,  where  even  the  welcome 
sounds  of  the  croaking  frogs  and  the  lowing  cattle  were 
not.  Where  nothing  was  to  cheer  her  for  the  work  which 
in  the  future  must  be  hers.  Something  of  that  solemn  night 
entered  her  soul.  The  gloom  of  disaster  was  upon  her. 

It  was  only  a  short  distance  to  Dr.  Abbot's  house.  The 
darkness  of  the  night  was  no  hindrance  to  the  girl.  Hither 
she  made  her  way  with  the  light,  springing  step  of  one  whose 
mind  is  made  up  to  a  definite  purpose. 

She  found  Mrs.  Abbot  in.  The  little  sitting-room  in  the 
doctor's  house  was  delightfully  homelike  and  comfortable. 
There  was  nothing  pretentious  about  it  —  just  solid  comfort. 
And  the  great  radiating  stove  in  the  center  of  it  smelt 
invitingly  warm  to  the  girl  as  she  came  in  out  of  the  raw 
night  air.  Mrs.  Abbot  was  alternating  between  a  basket  of 
sewing  and  a  well-worn,  cheap-edition  novel.  The  old  lady 
was  waiting  with  patience,  the  outcome  of  experience,  for 
the  return  of  her  lord  to  his  supper. 

"  Well,  *  Aunt '  Margaret,"  said  Jacky,  entering  with  the 
confidence  of  an  assured  welcome,  "  I've  come  over  for  a 
good  gossip.  There's  nobody  at  home  —  up  there,"  with  a 
nod  in  the  direction  of  the  ranch. 

"  My  dear  child,  I'm  so  pleased,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abbot, 
coming  forward  from  her  rather  rigid  seat,  and  kissing  the 
girl  on  both  cheeks  with  old-fashioned  cordiality.  "  Come 


100     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

and  sit  by  the  stove  —  yes,  take  that  hideous  hat  off,  which, 
by  the  way,  I  never  could  understand  your  wearing.  Now, 
when  John  and  I  were  first  en  — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear.  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  in- 
terrupted the  girl,  smiling  in  spite  of  the  dull  aching  at  her 
heart.  She  knew  how  this  sweet  old  lady  lived  in  the  past, 
and  she  also  knew  how,  to  a  sympathetic  ear,  she  loved  to 
pour  out  the  delights  of  memory  from  a  heart  overflowing 
with  a  strong  affection  for  the  man  of  her  choice.  Jacky 
had  come  here  to  talk  of  other  matters,  and  she  knew  that 
when  "  Aunt "  Margaret  liked  she  could  be  very  shrewd 
and  practical. 

Something  in  the  half-wistful  smile  of  her  companion 
brought  the  old  lady  quickly  back  from  the  realms  of  recol- 
lection, and  a  pair  of  keen,  kindly  eyes  met  the  steady  gray- 
black  orbs  of  the  girl. 

"  Ah,  Jacky,  my  child,  we  of  the  frivolous  sex  are  al- 
ways being  forced  into  considering  the  mundane  matters 
of  everyday  life  here  at  Foss  River.  What  is  it,  dear?  I 
can  see  by  your  face  that  you  are  worrying  over  some- 
thing." 

The  girl  threw  herself  into  an  easy  chair,  drawn  up  to  the 
glowing  stove  with  careful  forethought  by  the  old  lady. 
Mrs.  Abbot  reseated  herself  in  the  straight-backed  chair  she 
usually  affected.  She  carefully  put  her  book  on  one  side 
and  took  up  some  darning,  assiduously  inserting  the  needle 
but  without  further  attempt  at  work.  It  was  something  to 
fix  her  attention  on  whilst  talking.  Old  Mrs.  Abbot  always 
liked  to  be  able  to  occupy  her  hands  when  talking  seriously. 
And  Jacky's  face  told  her  that  this  was  a  moment  for  serious 
conversation. 

"Where's  the  Doc?"  the  girl  asked  without  preamble. 
She  knew,  of  course,  but  she  used  the  question  by  way  of 
making  a  beginning. 

The  old  lady  imperceptibly  straightened  her  back.  She 
now  anticipated  the  reason  of  her  companion's  coming.  She 
glanced  over  the  top  of  a  pair  of  gold  pince-nez,  which  she 


"AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS 


had  just  settled  comfortably  upon  the  bridge  of  her  pretty, 
broad  nose. 

"  He's  down  at  the  saloon  playing  poker.    Why,  dear?  " 

Her  question  was  so  innocent,  but  Jacky  was  not  for  a 
moment  deceived  by  its  tone.  The  girl  smiled  plaintively 
into  the  fire.  There  was  no  necessity  for  her  to  disguise 
her  feelings  before  "  Aunt "  Margaret,  she  knew.  But  her 
loyal  nature  shrank  from  flaunting  her  uncle's  weaknesses 
before  even  this  kindly  soul.  She  kept  her  fencing  attitude 
a  little  longer,  however. 

"  Who  is  he  playing  with  ?  "  Jacky  raised  a  pair  of  in- 
quiring gray  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"  Your  uncle  and  —  Lablache." 

The  shrewd  old  eyes  watched  the  girl's  face  keenly.  But 
Jacky  gave  no  sign. 

"Will  you  send  for  him,  *  Aunt '  Margaret?"  said  the 
girl,  quietly.  "  Without  letting  him  know  that  I  am  here," 
she  added,  as  an  afterthought 

"  Certainly,  dear,"  the  old  lady  replied,  rising  with  alac- 
rity. "  Just  wait  a  moment  while  I  send  word.  Keewis 
hasn't  gone  to  his  teepee  yet.  I  set  him  to  clean  some 
knives  just  now.  He  can  go.  These  Indians  are  better 
messengers  than  they  are  domestics."  Mrs.  Abbot  bustled 
out  of  the  room. 

She  returned  a  moment  later,  and,  drawing  her  chair  be- 
side that  of  the  girl,  seated  herself  and  rested  one  soft  white 
hand  on  those  of  her  companion,  which  were  reposing  clasped 
in  the  lap  of  her  dungaree  skirt. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  dear  —  tell  me  all  about  it  —  I  know,  it  is 
your  uncle." 

The  sympathy  of  her  tone  could  never  have  been  con- 
veyed in  mere  words.  This  woman's  heart  expressed  its 
kindliness  in  voice  and  eyes.  There  was  no  resisting  her, 
and  Jacky  made  no  effort  to  do  so. 

For  one  instant  there  flashed  into  the  girl's  face  a  look 
of  utter  distress.  She  had  come  purposely  to  talk  plainly 
to  the  woman  whom  she  had  lovingly  dubbed  "  Aunt  Mar- 


10?      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

garet,"  but  she  found  it  very  hard  when  it  came  to  the  point. 
She  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  a  beginning,  then  abandoned 
the  quest  and  blurted  out  lamely  the  very  thing  from  which 
she  most  shrank. 

"  Say,  auntie,  youVe  observed  uncle  lately  —  I  mean  how 
strange  he  is?  YouVe  noticed  how  often,  now,  he  is  —  is 
not  himself  ?  " 

"  Whisky,"  said  the  old  lady,  uncompromisingly.  "  Yes, 
dear,  I  have.  It  is  quite  the  usual  thing  to  smell  *  old  man  ' 
Smith's  vile  liquor  when  John  Allandale  is  about.  I'm  glad 
you've  spoken.  I  did  not  like  to  say  anything  to  you  about 
it.  John's  on  a  bad  trail." 

"  Yes,  and  a  trail  with  a  long,  downhill  gradient,"  re- 
plied Jacky,  with  a  rueful  little  smile.  "  Say,  aunt,"  she 
went  on,  springing  suddenly  to  her  feet  and  confronting  the 
old  lady's  mildly-astonished  gaze,  "  isn't  there  anything  we 
can  do  to  stop  him?  What  is  it?  This  poker  and  whisky 
are  ruining  him  body  and  soul.  Is  the  whisky  the  result  of 
his  losses?  Or  is  the  madness  for  a  gamble  the  result  of 
the  liquor?  " 

"  Neither  the  one  —  nor  the  other,  my  dear.  It  is  — 
Lablache." 

The  older  woman  bent  over  her  darning,  and  the  needle 
passed,  rippling,  round  a  "potato"  in  the  sock  which  was 
in  her  lap.  Her  eyes  were  studiously  fixed  upon  the  work. 

"Lablache  —  Lablache!  It  is  always  Lablache,  which- 
ever way  I  turn.  Gee  —  but  the  whole  country  reeks  of 
him.  I  tell  you  right  here,  aunt,  that  man's  worse  than 
scurvy  in  our  ranching  world.  Everybody  and  everything 
in  Foss  River  seems  to  be  in  his  grip." 

"  Excepting  a  certain  young  woman  who  refuses  to  be  en- 
snared." 

The  words  were  spoken  quite  casually.  But  Jacky 
started.  Their  meaning  was  driven  straight  home.  She 
looked  down  upon  the  bent,  gray  head  as  if  trying  to 
penetrate  to  the  thought  that  was  passing  within.  There 
was  a  moment's  impressive  silence.  The  clock  ticked  loudly 


"  AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS  103 

in  the  silence  of  the  room.  A  light  wind  was  whistling 
rather  shrilly  outside,  round  the  angles  of  the  house. 

"  Go  on,  auntie,"  said  the  girl,  slowly.  "  You  haven't 
said  enough  —  yet.  I  guess  you're  thinking  mighty  — 
deeply." 

Mrs.  Abbot  looked  up  from  her  work.  She  was  smiling, 
but  behind  that  smile  there  was  a  strange  gravity  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  say  at  present."  Then  she 
added,  in  a  tone  from  which  all  seriousness  had  vanished, 
"  Hasn't  Lablache  ever  asked  you  to  marry  him?  " 

A  light  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  the  girl. 

"Yes  — why?" 

"  I  thought  so."  It  was  now  Mrs.  Abbot's  turn  to  rise 
and  confront  her  companion.  And  she  did  so  with  the 
calm  manner  of  one  who  is  assured  that  what  she  is  about 
to  say  cannot  be  refuted.  Her  kindly  face  had  lost  nothing 
of  its  sweet  expression,  only  there  was  something  in  it 
which  seemed  to  be  asking  a  mute  question,  whilst  her 
words  conveyed  the  statement  of  a  case  as  she  knew  it. 
"  You  dear,  foolish  people.  Can  you  not  see  what  is  going 
on  before  your  very  eyes,  or  must  a  stupid  old  woman  like 
myself  explain  what  is  patent  to  the  veriest  fool  in  the  set- 
tlement? Lablache  is  the  source  of  your  uncle's  trouble, 
and,  incidentally,  you  are  the  incentive.  I  have  watched  — 
I  have  little  else  to  do  in  Foss  River  —  you  all  for  years 
past,  and  there  is  little  that  I  could  not  tell  you  about  any 
of  you,  as  far  as  the  world  sees  you.  Lablache  has  been  a 
source  of  a  world  of  thought  to  me.  The  business  side  of 
him  is  patent  to  everybody.  He  is  hard,  flinty,  tyrannical  — 
even  unscrupulous.  I  am  telling  you  nothing  new,  I  know. 
But  there  is  another  side  to  his  character  which  some  of 
you  seem  to  ignore.  He  is  capable  of  strong  passions  — 
ay,  very  strong  passions.  He  has  conceived  a  passion  for 
you.  I  will  call  it  by  no  other  name  in  such  an  unholy 
brute  as  Lablache.  He  wishes  to  marry  you  —  he  means  to 
marry  you." 


104     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  silver-haired  old  lady  had  worked  herself  up  to 
an  unusual  vehemence.  She  paused  after  accentuating  her 
last  words.  Jacky,  taking  advantage  of  the  break,  dropped 
in  a  question. 

"  But  —  how  does  this  affect  my  uncle  ?  " 

"  Aunt "  Margaret  sniffed  disdainfully  and  resettled  the 
glasses  which,  in  the  agitation  of  the  moment,  had  slipped 
from  her  nose. 

"  Of  course  it  affects  your  uncle,"  she  continued  more 
quietly.  "Now  listen  and  I  will  explain."  Once  more 
these  two  seated  themselves  and  "  Aunt "  Margaret  again 
plunged  into  her  story. 

"  Sometimes  I  catch  myself  speculating  as  to  how  it 
comes  about  that  you  have  inspired  this  passion  in  such 
a  man  as  Lablache,"  she  began,  glancing  into  the  somberly 
beautiful  face  beside  her.  "  I  should  have  expected  that 
mass  of  flesh  and  money  —  he  always  reminds  me  of  a  jelly- 
fish, my  dear  —  ugh !  —  to  have  wished  to  take  to  himself  one 
of  your  gaudy  butterflies  from  New  York  or  London  for  a 
wife;  not  a  simple  child  of  the  prairie  who  is  more  than 
half  a  wild  —  wild  savage."  She  smiled  lovingly  into  the 
girl's  face.  "  You  see  these  coarse  money-grubbers  always 
prefer  their  pills  well  gilded,  and,  as  a  rule,  their  matri- 
monial pills  need  a  lot  of  gilding  to  bring  them  up  to  the 
standard  of  what  they  think  a  wife  should  be.  However,  it 
was  not  long  before  it  became  plain  to  me  that  he  wished 
to  marry  you.  He  may  be  a  master  of  finance;  he  may 
disguise  his  feelings  —  if  he  has  any  —  in  business,  so  that 
the  shrewdest  observer  can  discover  no  vulnerable  point  in 
his  armor  of  dissimulation.  But  when  it  comes  to  matters 
pertaining  to  —  to  —  love  —  quite  the  wrong  word  in  his 
case,  my  dear  —  these  men  are  as  babes;  worse,  they  are 
fools.  When  Lablache  makes  up  his  mind  to  a  purpose  he 
generally  accomplishes  his  end — " 

"  In  business,"  suggested  Jacky,  moodily. 

"  Just  so  —  in  business,  my  dear.  In  matters  matri- 
monial it  may  be  different.  But  I  doubt  his  failure  in 


"  AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS     105 

that,"  went  on  Mrs.  Abbot,  with  a  decided  snap  of  her 
expressive  mouth.  "He  will  try  by  fair  means  or  foul, 
and,  if  I  know  anything  of  him,  he  will  never  relinquish  his 
purpose.  He  asked  you  to  marry  him  —  and  of  course  you 
refused,  quite  natural  and  right.  He  will  not  risk  another 
refusal  from  you  —  these  people  consider  themselves  very 
sensitive,  my  dear  —  so  he  will  attempt  to  accomplish  his 
end  by  other  means  —  means  much  more  congenial  to  him, 
the  —  the  beast.  There  now,  I've  said  it,  my  dear.  The 
doctor  tells  me  that  he  is  quite  the  most  skilful  player  at 
poker  that  he  has  ever  come  across." 

"  I  guess  that's  so,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  dark,  ironical 
smile. 

"  And  that  his  luck  is  phenomenal,"  the  old  lady  went 
on,  without  appearing  to  notice  the  interruption.  "  Very 
well.  Your  uncle,  the  old  fool  —  excuse  me,  my  dear  —  has 
done  nothing  but  gamble  all  his  life.  The  doctor  says 
that  he  believes  John  has  never  been  known  to  win  more 
than  about  once  in  a  month's  play,  no  matter  with  whom 
he  plays.  You  know  —  we  all  know  —  that  for  years  he  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  raising  loans  from  this  monumental 
cuttle-fish  to  settle  his  losses.  And  you  can  trust  that  in- 
dividual to  see  that  these  loans  are  well  secured.  John 
Allandale  is  reputed  very  rich,  but  the  doctor  assures  me 
that  were  Lablache  to  foreclose  his  mortgages  a  very,  very 
big  slice  of  your  uncle's  worldly  goods  would  be  taken  to 
meet  his  debts. 

"Now  comes  the  last  stage  of  the  affair,"  she  went  on, 
with  a  sage  little  shake  of  the  head.  "  How  long  ago  is  it 
since  Lablache  proposed  to  you?  But  there,  you  need  not 
tell  me.  It  was  a  little  less  than  a  year  ago  —  wasn't 
it?" 

Her  companion  nodded  her  head.  She  wondered  how 
"  Aunt "  Margaret  had  guessed  it.  She  had  never  told  a 
soul  herself.  The  shrewd  little  old  lady  was  filling  her 
with  wonder.  The  careful  manner  in  which  she  had  pieced 
facts  together  and  argued  them  out  with  herself  revealed  to 


106      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

her  a  cleverness  and  observation  she  would  never,  in  spite 
of  the  kindly  soul's  counsels,  have  given  her  credit  for. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  I  was  right,"  said  Mrs.  Abbot,  com- 
placently. "  Just  about  the  time  when  Lablache  began 
seriously  to  play  poker  —  about  the  time  when  his 
phenomenal  luck  set  in,  to  the  detriment  of  your  uncle. 
Yes,  I  am  well  posted,"  as  the  girl  raised  her  eyebrows  in 
surprise.  "  The  doctor  tells  me  a  great  deal  —  especially 
about  your  uncle,  dear.  I  always  like  to  know  what  is 
going  on.  And  now  to  bring  my  long  explanation  to  an 
end.  Don't  you  see  how  Lablache  intends  to  marry  you? 
Your  uncle's  losses  this  winter  have  been  so  terribly  heavy 
—  and  all  to  Lablache.  Lablache  holds  the  whip  hand  of 
him.  A  request  from  Lablache  becomes  a  command  —  or 
the  crash." 

"  But  how  about  the  Doc,"  asked  Jacky,  quickly.  "  He 
plays  with  them  —  mostly?" 

Mrs.  Abbot  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  The  doctor  can  take  care  of  himself.  He's  cautious,  and 
besides  —  Lablache  has  no  wish  to  win  his  money." 

"  But  surely  he  must  lose?  Say,  auntie,  dear,  it's  not 
possible  to  play  against  Lablache's  luck  without  losing  — 
some." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  can't  say  I  know  much  of  the  game," 
with  some  perplexity,  "  but  the  doctor  assures  me  that 
Lablache  never  hits  him  hard.  Often  arid  often  when  the 
'  pot '  rests  between  them  Lablache  will  throw  down  his 
hand  —  which  goes  to  show  that  he  does  not  want  to  take 
his  money." 

"  An*  I  reckon  goes  to  show  that  he's  bucking  dead  against 
Uncle  John,  only.  Yes,  I  see." 

The  little  gray  head  again  bent  over  the  darning,  which 
had  lain  almost  untouched  in  her  lap  during  her  long 
recital.  Now  she  resolutely  drew  the  darning  yarn  through 
the  soft  wool  of  the  sock  and  re-inserted  the  needle.  The 
girl  beside  her  bent  an  eager  face  before  her,  and,  resting  her 
chin  upon  her  hands,  propped  her  elbows  on  her  knees. 


"  AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS  107 

"Yes,  auntie,  I  know,"  Jacky  went  on  thoughtfully. 
"  Lablache  means  to  put  this  marriage  with  me  right  through. 
I  see  it  all.  But  say,"  bringing  one  of  her  brown  hands 
down  forcibly  upon  that  of  her  companion,  which  was  con- 
cealed in  the  foot  of  the  woolen  sock,  and  gripping  it  with 
nervous  strength,  "  I  guess  he's  reckoned  without  his  bride. 
I'm  not  going  to  marry  Lablache,  auntie,  dear,  and  you  can 
bet  your  bottom  dollar  I'm  not  going  to  let  him  ruin  uncle. 
All  I  want  to  do  is  to  stop  uncle  drinking.  That  is  what 
scares  me  most." 

"  My  child,  Lablache  is  the  cause  of  that.  The  same  as 
he  is  the  cause  of  all  troubles  in  Foss  River.  Your  uncle 
realizes  the  consequences  of  the  terrible  losses  he  has 
incurred.  He  knows,  only  too  well,  that  he  is  utterly  in 
the  money-lender's  power.  He  knows  he  must  go  on  play- 
ing, vainly  endeavoring  to  recover  himself,  and  with  each 
fresh  loss  he  drinks  deeper  to  smother  his  fears  and  con- 
science. It  is  the  result  of  the  weakness  of  his  nature  — 
a  weakness  which  I  have  always  known  would  sooner  or 
later  lead  to  his  undoing.  Jacky,  girl,  I  fear  you  will  one 
day  have  to  marry  Lablache  or  your  uncle's  ruin  will  be 
certainly  accomplished." 

Mrs.  Abbot's  face  was  very  serious  now.  She  pitied  from 
the  bottom  of  her  heart  this  motherless  girl  who  had  come 
to  her,  in  spite  of  her  courage  and  almost  mannish  inde- 
pendence, for  that  sympathy  and  advice  which,  at  certain 
moments,  the  strongest  woman  cannot  do  without.  She 
knew  that  all  she  had  said  was  right,  and  even  if  her  story 
could  do  no  material  good  it  would  at  least  have  the  effect 
of  putting  the  girl  on  her  guard.  In  spite  of  her  shrewd- 
ness Mrs.  Abbot  could  never  quite  fathom  her  protegee. 
And  even  now,  as  she  gazed  into  the  girl's  face,  she  was 
wondering  how  —  in  what  manner  —  the  narration  of  her 
own  observations  would  influence  the  other's  future  actions. 
The  thick  blood  of  the  half-breed  slowly  rose  into  Jacky's 
face,  until  the  dark  skin  was  suffused  with  a  heavy,  pas- 
sionate flush.  Slowly,  too,  the  somber  eyes  lit  —  glowed  — 


108      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

until  the  dazzling  fire  of  anger  shone  in  their  depths.  Then 
she  spoke;  not  passionately,  but  with  a  hard,  cruel  delivery 
which  sent  a  shiver  thrilling  through  her  companion's  body 
and  left  her  shuddering. 

"  '  Aunt '  Margaret,  I  swear  by  all  that's  holy  that  I'll 
never  marry  that  scum.  Say,  I'd  rather  follow  a  round-up 
camp  and  share  a  greaser's  blankets  than  wear  all  the  dia- 
monds Lablache  could  buy.  An'  as  for  uncle;  say,  the  day 
that  sees  him  ruined'll  see  Lablache's  filthy  brains  spoiling 
God's  pure  air." 

"  Child,  child,"  replied  the  old  lady,  in  alarm,  "  don't 
take  oaths,  the  rashness  —  the  folly  of  which  you  cannot 
comprehend.  For  goodness'  sake  don't  entertain  such 
wicked  thoughts.  Lablache  is  a  villain,  but  — " 

She  broke  off  and  turned  towards  the  door,  which,  at 
that  moment,  opened  to  admit  the  genial  doctor. 

"  Ah,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner  back 
to  that  of  her  usual  cheerful  self,  "  I  thought  you  men  were 
going  to  make  a  night  of  it.  Jacky  came  to  share  my 
solitude." 

"  Good  evening,  Jacky,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Yes,  we  were 
going  to  make  a  night  of  it,  Margaret.  Your  summons 
broke  up  the  party,  and  for  John's  sake — "  He  checked 
himself,  and  glanced  curiously  at  the  recumbent  form  of 
the  girl,  who  was  now  lounging  back  in  her  chair  gazing 
into  the  stove.  "  What  did  you  want  me  for?  " 

Jacky  rose  abruptly  from  her  seat  and  picked  up  her 
hat. 

"  '  Aunt '  Margaret  didn't  really  want  you,  Doc.  It  was 
I  who  asked  her  to  send  for  you.  I  want  to  see 
uncle." 

"Ah!" 

The  doctor  permitted  himself  the  ejaculation. 

"  Good-night,  you  two  dear  people,"  the  girl  went  on, 
with  a  forced  attempt  at  cheerfulness.  "  I  guess  uncle'll  be 
home  by  now,  so  I'll  be  off." 

"  Yes,  he  left  the  saloon  with  me,"  said  Doctor  Abbot, 


"  AUNT  "  MARGARET  REFLECTS  109 

shaking  hands  and  walking  towards  the  door.  "  You'll  just 
about  catch  him." 

The  girl  kissed  the  old  lady  and  passed  out.  The  doctor 
stood  for  a  moment  on  his  doorstep  gazing  after  her. 

"  Poor  child  —  poor  child !  "  he  murmured.  "  Yes,  she'll 
find  him  —  I  saw  him  home  myself."  And  he  broke  off  with 
an  expressive  shrug. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   CAMPAIGN   OPENS 

THE  summit  of  a  hill,  however  insignificant  its  altitude,  is 
always  an  inspiring  vantage  point  from  which  to  survey 
the  surrounding  world.  There  is  a  briskness  of  atmosphere 
on  a  hilltop  which  is  inspiriting  to  the  most  jaded  of 
faculties;  there  is  a  sparkling  vitality  in  the  breath  of  the 
morning  air  which  must  ever  make  life  a  joy  and  the  world 
seem  an  inexpressible  delight  in  which  it  is  the  acme  of 
happiness  to  dwell. 

The  exigencies  of  prairie  life  demand  the  habit  of  early 
rising,  and  more  often  does  the  tiny  human  atom,  which 
claims  for  its  home  the  vast  tracts  of  natural  pasture,  gaze 
upon  the  sloth  of  the  orb  of  day  than  does  that  glorious 
sphere  smile  down  upon  a  sleeping  world. 

Far  as  the  eye  can  reach  stretch  the  mighty  wastes  of 
waving  grass  —  the  undulating  plains  of  ravishing  verdure. 
What  breadth  of  thought  must  thus  be  inspired  in  one  who 
gazes  out  across  the  boundless  expanse  at  the  glories  of 
a  perfect  sunrise?  How  insignificant  becomes  the  petty 
affairs  of  man  when  gazing  upon  the  majesty  of  God's 
handiwork.  How  utterly  inconceivable  becomes  the  associa- 
tion of  evil  with  such  transcendently  beautiful  creation? 
Surely  no  evil  was  intended  to  lurk  in  the  shadow  of  so  much 
simple  splendor. 

And  yet  does  the  ghastly  specter  of  crime  haunt  the 
perfect  plains,  the  majestic  valleys,  the  noiseless,  inspiring 
pine  woods,  the  glistening,  snow-capped  hills.  And  so  it 
must  remain  as  long  as  the  battle  of  life  continues  undecided 
—  so  long  as  the  struggle  for  existence  endures. 

The  Hon.  Bunning-Ford  rose  while  yet  the  daylight 

no 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  111 

was  struggling  to  overcome  the  shades  of  night.  He  stood 
upon  the  tiny  veranda  which  fronted  his  minute  house, 
smoking  his  early  morning  cigarette.  He  was  waiting  for 
his  coffee  —  that  stimulating  beverage  which  few  who  have 
lived  in  the  wilds  of  the  West  can  do  without  —  and  idly , 
luxuriating  in  the  wondrous  charm  of  scene  which  was  spread 
out  before  him.  "  Lord "  Bill  was  not  a  man  of  great 
poetic  mind,  but  he  appreciated  his  adopted  country  — 
"  God's  country,"  as  he  was  wont  to  call  it  —  as  can  only 
those  who  have  lived  in  it.  The  prairie  had  become  part 
of  his  very  existence,  and  he  loved  to  contemplate  the 
varying  lights  and  colors  which  moved  athwart  the  fresh 
spring-clad  plains  as  the  sun  rose  above  the  eastern  horizon. 

The  air  was  chill,  but  withal  invigorating,  as  he  watched 
the  steely  blue  of  the  daylit  sky  slowly  give  place  to  the 
rosy  tint  of  sunrise.  Slowly  at  first  —  then  faster  —  great 
waves  of  golden  light  seemed  to  leap  from  the  top  of  one 
green  rising  ground  to  another;  the  gray  white  of  the 
snowy  western  mountains  passed  from  one  dead  shade  to 
another,  until,  at  last,  they  gleamed  like  alabaster  from 
afar  with  a  diamond  brilliancy  almost  painful  to  the  eye. 
Thus  the  sun  rose  like  some  mighty  caldron  of  fire  mount- 
ing into  the  cloudless  azure  of  a  perfect  sky,  showering 
unctuous  rays  of  light  and  heat  upon  the  chilled  life  that 
was  of  its  own  creating. 

Bill  was  still  lost  in  thought,  gazing  out  upon  the  perfect 
scene  from  the  vantage  point  of  the  hill  upon  which  his 
"  shack  "  stood,  when  round  the  corner  of  the  house  came 
a  half-breed,  bearing  a  large  tin  pannikin  of  steaming 
coffee.  He  took  the  pannikin  from  the  man  and  propped 
himself  against  a  post  which  helped  to  support  the  roof  of 
the  veranda. 

"  Are  the  boys  out  ye.t?  "  he  asked  the  waiting  Breed,  and 
nodding  towards  the  corrals,  which  reposed  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  and  were  overlooked  by  the  house. 

"  I  guess,"  the  fellow  replied  laconically.  Then,  as  an 
afterthought,  "  They're  getting  breakfast,  anyhow." 


112     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Say,  when  they've  finished  their  grub  you  can  tell  'em 
to  turn  to  and  lime  out  the  sheds.  I'm  going  in  to  the  settle- 
ment to-day.  If  I'm  not  back  to-night  let  them  go  right  on 
with  the  job  to-morrow." 

The  man  signified  his  understanding  of  the  instructions 
with  a  grunt.  This  cook  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  was  not  a  man  of 
words.  His  vocation  had  induced  an  irascibility  of  temper 
which  took  the  form  of  silence.  His  was  an  incipient  mis- 
anthropy. 

Bill  returned  the  empty  pannikin  and  strolled  down  to- 
wards the  corrals  and  sheds.  The  great  barn  lay  well  away 
from  where  the  cattle  congregated.  This  ranch  was  very 
different  from  that  of  the  Allandales  of  Foss  River.  It 
was  some  miles  away  from  the  settlement.  Its  surroundings 
were  far  more  open.  Timber  backed  the  house,  it  is  true, 
but  in  front  was  the  broad  expanse  of  the  open  plains.  It 
was  an  excellent  position,  and,  governed  by  a  thrifty  hand, 
would  undoubtedly  have  thrived  and  ultimately  vied  with 
the  more  elaborate  establishment  over  which  Jacky  held 
sway.  As  it  was,  however,  Bill  cared  little  for  prosperity 
and  money-making,  and  though  he  did  not  neglect  his  prop- 
erty he  did  not  attempt  to  extend  its  present  limits. 

The  milch  cows  were  slowly  mouching  from  the  corrals 
as  he  neared  the  sheds.  A  diminutive  herder  was  urging 
them  along  with  shrill,  piping  shrieks  —  vicious  but  in- 
effective. Far  more  to  the  purpose  were  the  efforts  to  a 
well-trained,  bob-tailed  sheep  dog  who  was  awaking  echoes 
on  the  brisk  morning  air  with  the  full-toned  note  of  his 
bark. 

"  Lord "  Bill  found  one  or  two  hands  quietly  enjoying 
their  after-breakfast  smoke,  but  the  majority  had  not  as 
yet  left  the  kitchen.  Outside  the  barn  two  men  were  busily 
soft-soaping  their  saddles  and  bridles,  whilst  a  third,  seated 
on  an  upturned  box,  was  wiping  out  his  revolver  with  a 
coal-oil  rag.  Bill  passed  them  by  with  a  nod  and  greeting, 
and  went  into  the  stable.  The  horses  were  feeding,  but  as 
yet  the  stalls  had  not  been  cleaned  out.  He  returned  and 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  113 

gave  some  instructions  to  one  of  the  men.  Then  he  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  house.  Usually  he  would  have  stayed 
down  there  to  see  the  work  of  the  day  carried  out;  now, 
however,  he  was  preoccupied.  On  this  particular  morning 
he  took  but  little  interest  in  the  place;  he  knew  only  too  well 
how  soon  it  must  pass  from  his  possession. 

Half-way  up  the  hill  he  paused  and  turned  his  sleepy 
eyes  towards  the  south.  At  a  considerable  distance  a 
vehicle  was  approaching  at  a  spanking  pace.  It  was  a  buck- 
board,  one  of  those  sturdy  conveyances  built  especially  for 
light  prairie  transport.  As  yet  it  was  not  sufficiently  near 
for  him  to  distinguish  its  occupant,  but  the  speed  and  cut 
of  the  horses  seemed  familiar  to  him.  He  continued  on 
towards  the  house,  and  seated  himself  leisurely  on  the  ver- 
anda, and,  rolling  himself  another  cigarette,  calmly  watched 
the  on-coming  conveyance. 

It  was  the  habit  of  this  man  never  to  be  prodigal  in  the 
display  of  energy.  He  usually  sat  when  there  was  no  need 
for  standing;  he  always  considered  speech  to  be  golden, 
but  silence,  to  his  way  of  thinking,  was  priceless.  And 
like  most  men  of  such  opinion  he  cultivated  thought  and 
observation, 

He  propped  his  back  against  the  veranda  post,  and,  tak- 
ing a  deep  inhalation  from  his  cigarette,  gazed  long  and 
earnestly,  with  half-closed  eyes,  down  the  winding  southern 
trail. 

His  curiosity,  if  such  a  feeling  might  have  been  attributed 
to  him,  was  soon  set  at  rest,  for,  as  the  horses  raced  up  the 
hill  towards  him,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the 
bulky  proportions  of  his  visitor.  Seeing  the  driver  of  the 
buckboard  making  for  the  house,  two  of  the  "  hands  "  had 
hastened  up  the  hill  to  take  the  horses.  Lablache,  for  it 
was  the  fleshy  money-lender,  slid,  as  agilely  as  his  great 
bulk  would  permit  him,  from  the  vehicle,  and  the  two 
men  took  charge  of  the  horses.  Bill  was  not  altogether 
cordial.  It  was  not  his  way  to  be  so  to  anybody  but  his 
friends. 


114      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  How  are  you?  "  he  said  with  a  nod,  but  without  rising 
from  his  recumbent  attitude.  "  Coin'  to  stay  long?  " 

His  latter  question  sounded  churlish,  but  Lablache  under- 
stood his  meaning.  It  was  of  the  horses  the  rancher  was 
thinking. 

"  An  hour,  maybe,"  replied  Lablache,  breathing  heavily 
as  a  result  of  his  climb  out  of  the  buckboard. 

"  Right  Take  'em  away,  boys.  Remove  the  harness 
and  give  'em  a  good  rub  down.  Don't  water  or  feed  'em 
till  they're  cool.  They're  spanking  *  plugs/  Lablache,"  he 
added,  as  he  watched  the  horses  being  led  down  to  the 
barn.  "  Come  inside.  Had  breakfast?  "  rising  and  knock- 
ing the  dust  from  the  seat  of  his  moleskin  trousers. 

"  Yes,  I  had  breakfast  before  daylight,  thanks,"  Lablache 
said,  glancing  quickly  down  at  the  empty  corrals,  where  his 
horses  were  about  to  undergo  a  rubbing  down.  "  I  came 
out  to  have  a  business  chat  with  you.  Shall  we  go  in- 
doors?" 

"Most  certainly." 

There  was  an  expressive  curtness  in  the  two  words.  Bill 
permitted  himself  a  brief  survey  of  the  great  man's  back  as 
the  latter  turned  towards  the  front  door.  And  although 
his  half-closed  lids  hid  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  the  pursing 
of  the  lips  and  the  fluctuating  muscles  of  his  jaw  spoke 
of  unpleasant  thoughts  passing  through  his  mind.  A  busi- 
ness talk  with  Lablache,  under  the  circumstances,  could  not 
afford  the  rancher  much  pleasure.  He  followed  the  money- 
lender into  the  sitting-room. 

The  apartment  was  very  bare,  mannish,  and  scarcely  the 
acme  of  neatness.  A  desk,  a  deck  chair,  a  bench  and  a 
couple  of  old-fashioned  Windsor  chairs;  a  small  table,  on 
which  breakfast  things  were  set,  an  old  saddle,  a  rack  of 
guns  and  rifles,  a  few  trophies  of  the  chase  in  the  shape  of 
skins  and  antelope  heads  comprised  the  furniture  and  decora- 
tions of  the  room.  And  too,  in  that  slightly  uncouth  collec- 
tion, something  of  the  character  of  the  proprietor  was  re- 
vealed. 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  115 

Bunning-Ford  was  essentially  careless  of  comfort. 
And  surely  he  was  nothing  if  not  a  keen  and  ardent  sports- 
man. 

"  Sit  down."  Bill  indicated  the  chairs  with  a  wave  of 
the  arm.  Lablache  dubiously  eyed  the  deck  chair,  then 
selected  one  of  the  unyielding  Windsor  chairs  as  more  safe 
for  the  burden  of  his  precious  body,  tested  it,  and  sat  down, 
emitting  a  gasp  of  breath  like  an  escape  of  steam  from  a 
safety-valve.  The  younger  man  propped  himself  on  the 
corner  of  his  desk. 

Lablache  looked  furtively  into  his  companion's  face. 
Then  he  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  window. 
Bill  said  nothing,  his  face  was  calm.  He  intended  the 
money-lender  to  speak  first.  The  latter  seemed  indisposed 
to  do  so.  His  lashless  eyes  gazed  steadily  out  at  the  prairie 
beyond.  "  Lord  "  Bill's  persistent  silence  at  length  forced 
the  other  into  speech.  His  words  came  slowly  and  were 
frequently  punctuated  with  deep  breaths. 

"  Your  ranch  —  everything  you  possess  is  held  on  first 
mortgage." 

"  Not  all."  Bunning-Ford's  answer  came  swiftly.  The 
abruptness  of  the  other's  announcement  nettled  him.  The 
tone  of  the  words  conveyed  a  challenge  which  the  younger 
man  was  not  slow  to  accept. 

Lablache  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  deliberation  until 
his  fleshy  jowl  creased  against  the  woolen  folds  of  his  shirt 
front. 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thing,"  he  said;  "what  I  —  what 
is  not  mortgaged  is  held  in  bonds.  The  balance,  practically 
all  of  it,  you  owe  under  signature  to  Pedro  Mancha.  It  is 
because  of  that -— latest  —  debt  I  am  here." 

"Ah!" 

Bill  rolled  a  fresh  cigarette  and  lit  it.  He  guessed  some- 
thing of  what  was  coming  —  but  not  all. 

"  Mancha  will  force  you  to  meet  your  liabilities  to  him. 
Your  interest  is  shortly  due  to  the  Calford  Loan  Co.  You 
cannot  meet  both." 


116     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Lablache  gazed  unblinkingly  into  the  other's  face.  He 
was  thoroughly  enjoying  himself. 

Bill  was  staring  pensively  at  his  cigarette.  One  leg 
swung  pendulum  fashion  beside  the  desk.  His  indebted- 
ness troubled  him  not  a  jot.  He  was  trying  to  fathom  the 
object  of  this  prelude.  Lablache,  he  knew,  had  not  come 
purposely  to  make  these  plain  statements.  He  blew  a  cloud 
of  smoke  down  his  nostrils  with  much  appreciation.  Then 
he  heaved  a  sigh  as  though  his  troubles  were  too  great  for 
him  to  bear. 

"Right  —  dead  right,  first  time." 

The  lazy  eyes  appeared  to  be  staring  into  space.  In  reality 
they  were  watching  the  doughy  countenance  before  him. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?"  Lablache  asked,  ignor- 
ing the  other's  flippant  tone. 

Bill  shrugged. 

"  Debts  of  honor  must  be  met  first,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Mancha  must  be  paid  in  full.  I  shall  take  care  of  that. 
For  the  rest,  I  have  no  doubt  your  business  knowledge  will 
prompt  you  as  to  what  course  the  Calford  Loan  Co.  and 
yourself  had  best  adopt." 

Lablache  was  slightly  taken  aback  at  the  cool  indifference 
of  this  man.  He  scarcely  knew  how  to  deal  with  him.  He 
had  driven  out  this  morning  intending  to  coerce,  or,  at  least, 
strike  a  hard  bargain.  But  the  object  of  his  attentions  was, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  difficult. 

He  moved  uneasily  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"  There  is  only  one  course  open  to  your  creditors.  It  is 
a  harsh  method  and  one  which  goes  devilishly  against  the 
grain.  But—" 

"  Pray  don't  apologize,  Mr.  Lablache,"  broke  in  the  other, 
smiling  sardonically.  "  I  am  fully  aware  of  the  tender  con- 
dition of  your  feelings.  I  only  trust  that  in  this  matter  you 
will  carry  out  your  —  er  —  painful  duty  without  worrying 
me  with  the  detail  of  the  necessary  routine.  I  shall  settle 
Mancha's  debt  at  once  ?nd  then  you  are  welcome  to  the  — 
confounded  lot." 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  117 

Bill  moved  from  his  position  and  walked  towards  the 
door.  The  significance  of  his  action  was  well  marked. 
Lablache,  however,  had  no  intention  of  going  yet.  He 
moved  heavily  round  upon  his  chair  so  as  to  face  his  man. 

"  One  moment  —  er  —  Ford.  You  are  a  trifle  precipitate. 
I  was  going  on  to  say,  when  you  interrupted  me,  that  if  you 
cared  to  meet  me  half-way  I  have  a  proposition  to  make 
which  might  solve  your  difficulty.  It  is  an  unusual  one,  I 
admit,  but,"  with  a  meaning  smile,  "  I  rather  fancy  that  the 
Calford  Loan  Co.  might  be  induced  to  see  the  advantage, 
to  them,  of  delaying  action." 

The  object  of  this  early  morning  visit  was  about  to  be 
made  apparent.  Bill  returned  to  his  position  at  the  desk 
and  lit  another  cigarette.  The  suave  manner  of  his  un- 
welcome guest  was  dangerous.  He  was  prepared.  There 
was  something  almost  feline  in  the  attitude  and  the  ex- 
pression of  the  young  rancher  as  he  waited  for  the  money- 
lender to  proceed.  Perhaps  Lablache  understood  him. 
Perhaps  his  understanding  warned  him  to  adopt  his  best 
manner.  His  usual  method  in  dealing  with  his  victims 
was  hardly  the  same  as  he  was  now  using. 

"Well,  what  is  this  'unusual'  course?"  asked  Bill,  in 
no  very  tolerant  tone.  He  wished  it  made  quite  plain  that 
he  cared  nothing  about  the  "  selling  up  "  process  to  which 
he  knew  he  must  be  subjected.  Lablache  noted  the  haughty 
manner  and  resented  it,  but  still  he  gave  no  outward  sign. 
He  had  a  definite  object  to  attain  and  he  would  not  allow 
his  anger  to  interfere  with  his  chances  of  success. 

"  Merely  a  pleasant  little  business  arrangement  which 
should  meet  all  parties'  requirements,"  he  said  easily. 
"  At  present  you  are  paying  a  ten  per  cent,  interest  on  a 
principal  of  thirty-five  thousand  dollars  to  the  Calford  Loan 
Co.  A  debt  of  twenty  thousand  to  me  includes  an  amount 
of  interest  which  represents  ten  per  cent,  interest  for  ten 
years.  Very  well.  Your  ranch  should  be  yielding  a  greater 
profit  than  it  is.  With  your  permission  the  Calford  Trust 
Co.  shall  put  in  a  competent  manager,  whose  salary  shall  be 


118      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

paid  out  of  the  profits.  The  balance  of  said  profits  shall  be 
handed  over  to  your  creditors,  less  an  annual  income  to  you 
of  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  Thus  the  principal  of  your 
debts,  at  a  careful  computation,  should  be  liquidated  in 
seven  years.  In  consideration  of  thus  shortening  the  period 
of  the  loans  by  three  years  the  Calford  Trust  Co.  shall  allow 
you  a  rebate  of  five  per  cent,  interest.  Failing  the  profits 
in  seven  years  amounting  to  the  sums  of  money  required, 
the  Calford  Trust  Co.  and  myself  will  forego  the  balance 
due  to  us.  Let  me  plainly  assure  you  that  this  is  no 
philanthropic  scheme  but  the  result  of  practical  calculation. 
The  advantage  to  you  is  obvious.  An  assured  income  dur- 
ing that  period,  and  your  ranch  well  and  ably  managed  and 
improved.  Your  property  at  the  end  of  seven  years  will 
return  to  you  a  vastly  more  valuable  possession  than  it  is 
at  present.  And  we,  on  our  part,  will  recover  our  money  and 
interest  without  the  unpleasant  reflection  that,  in  doing  so, 
we  have  beggared  you." 

Lablache,  usurer,  scoundrel,  smiled  benignly  at  his  com- 
panion as  he  pronounced  his  concluding  words.  The  Hon. 
Bunning-Ford  looked,  thought,  and  looked  again.  He 
began  to  think  that  Lablache  was  meditating  a  more  rascally 
proceeding  than  he  had  given  him  credit  for.  His  words 
were  so  specious.  His  pie  was  so  delicately  crusted  with 
such  a  tempting  exterior.  What  was  the  object  of  this 
magnanimous  offer?  He  felt  he  must  know  more. 

"  It  sounds  awfully  well,  but  surely  that  is  not  all.  What, 
in  return,  is  demanded  of  me?  " 

Lablache  had  carefully  watched  the  effect  of  his  words. 
He  was  wondering  whether  the  man  he  was  dealing  with 
was  clever  beyond  the  average,  or  a  fool.  He  was  still 
balancing  the  point  in  his  mind  when  Bill  put  the  question. 

Lablache  looked  away,  produced  a  snuff-box  and  drew 
up  a  large  pinch  of  snuff  before  answering.  He  blew  his 
nose  with  trumpet-like  vehemence  on  a  great  red  bandana. 

"  The  only  return  asked  of  you  is  that  you  vacate  the 
country  for  the  next  two  years,"  he  said  heavily.  And 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  119 

in  that  rejoinder  "  Lord  "  Bill  understood  the  man's  guile. 

It  was  a  sudden  awakening,  but  it  came  to  him  as  no 
sort  of  surprise.  He  had  long  suspected,  although  he  had 
never  given  serious  credence  to  his  suspicions,  the  object  the 
money-lender  had  in  inveigling  both  himself  and  "  Poker  " 
John  into  their  present  difficulties.  Now  he  understood, 
and  a  burning  desire  swept  over  him  to  shoot  the  man  down 
where  he  sat.  Then  a  revulsion  of  feeling  came  to  him 
and  he  saw  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  situation.  He  gazed 
at  Lablache,  that  obese  mountain  of  blubber,  and  tried  to 
think  of  the  beautiful,  wild  Jacky  as  the  money-lender's 
wife.  The  thing  seemed  so  preposterous  that  he  burst  out 
into  a  mocking  laugh. 

Lablache,  whose  fishy  eyes  had  never  left  the  rancher's 
face,  heard  the  tone  and  slowly  flushed  with  anger.  For 
an  instant  he  seemed  about  to  rise,  then  instead  he  leant 
forward. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked,  breathing  his  monosyllabic  inquiry 
hissing  upon  the  air. 

Bill  emitted  a  thin  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  money- 
lender's face.  His  eyes  had  suddenly  become  wide  open 
and  blazing  with  anger.  He  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  I'll  see  you  damned  first!     Now  — git!  " 

At  the  door  Lablache  turned.  In  his  face  was  written 
all  the  fury  of  hell. 

"Mancha's  debt  is  transferred  to  me.  You  will  settle  it 
without  delay." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  last  word  when  there  was  a 
loud  report,  and  simultaneously  the  crash  of  a  bullet  in 
the  casing  of  the  door.  Lablache  accepted  his  dismissal 
with  precipitation  and  hastened  to  where  his  horses  were 
stationed,  to  the  accompaniment  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  mocking 
laugh.  He  had  no  wish  to  test  the  rancher's  marksmanship 
further. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LABLACHE    FORCES    THE    FIGHT 

A  MONTH  —  just  one  month  and  the  early  spring  has  de- 
veloped with  almost  tropical  suddenness  into  a  golden 
summer.  The  rapid  passing  of  seasons,  the  abrupt  break, 
the  lightning  change  from  one  into  another,  is  one  of  the 
many  beauties  of  the  climate  of  that  fair  land  where  there 
are  no  half  measures  in  Nature's  mode  of  dealing  out  from 
her  varied  store  of  moods.  Spring  chases  Winter,  hoary, 
bitter,  cruel  Winter,  in  the  hours  of  one  night;  and  in  turn 
Spring's  delicate  influence  is  overpowered  with  equal 
celerity  by  the  more  matured  and  unctuous  ripeness  of 
Summer. 

Foss  River  had  now  become  a  glorious  picture  of  vivid 
coloring.  The  clumps  of  pine  woods  no  longer  present 
their  tattered  purplish  appearance,  the  garb  in  which  grim 
Winter  is  wont  to  robe  them.  They  are  lighter,  gayer,  and 
bathed  in  the  gleaming  sunlight  they  are  transformed  from 
their  somber  forbidding  aspect  to  that  of  radiant,  welcome 
shade.  The  river  is  high,  almost  to  flooding  point  And 
the  melting  snow  on  the  distant  mountain-tops  has  urged 
it  into  a  sparkling  torrent  of  icy  cold  water  rushing  on  at  a 
pace  which  threatens  to  tear  out  its  deterring  banks  and 
shallow  bed  in  its  mad  career. 

The  most  magical  change  which  the  first  month  of  sum- 
mer has  brought  is  to  be  seen  in  the  stock.  Cattle,  when 
first  brought  in  from  distant  parts  at  the  outset  of  the  round- 
up, usually  are  thin,  mean-looking,  and  half -starved.  Two 
weeks  of  the  delicious  spring  grass  and  the  fat  on  their 
ribs  and  loins  rolls  and  shakes  as  they  move,  growing  al- 

120 


LABLACHE  FORCES  THE  FIGHT  121 

most  visibly  under  the  succulent  influence  of  the  delicate 
vegetation. 

Few  at  Foss  River  appreciated  the  blessings  of  summer 
more  fully  than  did  Jacky  Allendale,  and  few  worked 
harder  than  did  she.  Almost  single-handed  she  grappled 
with  the  stupendous  task  of  the  management  of  the  great 
ranch,  and  no  "  hand,"  however  experienced,  was  more  cap- 
able in  the  most  arduous  tasks  which  that  management  in- 
volved. From  the  skillful  organization  down  to  the  roping 
and  branding  of  a  wild  two-year-old  steer  there  was  no  one 
who  understood  the  business  of  stock-raising  better  than  she. 
She  loved  it  —  it  was  the  very  essence  of  life  to  her. 

Silas,  her  uncle's  foreman,  was  in  the  habit  of  summing 
her  up  in  his  brief  but  expressive  way. 

"  Missie  Jacky?  "  he  would  exclaim,  in  tones  of  surprise, 
to  any  one  who  dared  to  express  wonder  at  her  masterly 
management.  "  Guess  a  cyclone  does  its  biz  mighty 
thorough,  but  I  take  it  ef  that  gal  'ud  been  born  a  hurricane 
she'd  'ave  dislodged  mountains  an'  played  baseball  with  the 
glaciers." 

But  this  year  things  were  different  with  the  mistress  of 
the  Foss  River  Ranch.  True  she  went  about  her  work 
with  that  thorough  appreciation  which  she  always  displayed, 
but  the  young  face  had  last  something  of  its  happy  girlish 
delight  —  that  debonnaire  cheerfulness  which  usually 
characterized  it.  A  shadow  seemed  to  be  hanging  over  her 
—  a  shadow,  which,  although  it  marred  in  no  way  her  fresh 
young  beauty,  added  a  deepened  pensiveness  to  her  great 
somber  eyes,  and  seemed  to  broaden  the  fringing  black  ring 
round  the  gray  pupils.  This  year  the  girl  had  more  to 
grapple  with  than  the  mere  management  of  the  ranch. 

Her  uncle  needed  all  her  care.  And,  too,  the  conscious- 
ness that  the  result  of  all  her  work  was  insufficient  to  pay  the 
exorbitant  interest  on  mortgages  which  had  been  forced 
upon  her  uncle  by  the  hated,  designing  Lablache  took  some- 
thing of  the  zest  from  her  labors.  Then,  besides  this,  there 
were  thoughts  of  the  compact  sealed  between  her  lover  and 


122     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

herself  in  Bad  Man's  Hollow,  and  the  knowledge  of  the 
intentions  of  the  money-lender  towards  "  Lord "  Bill,  all 
helped  to  render  her  distrait.  She  knew  all  about  the  scene 
which  had  taken  place  at  Bill's  ranch,  and  she  knew  that, 
for  her  lover  at  least,  the  crash  had  come.  During  that  first 
month  of  the  open  season  the  girl  had  been  sorely  tried. 
There  was  no  one  but  "  Aunt "  Margaret  to  whom  she  could 
go  for  comfort  or  sympathy,  and  even  she,  with  her  wise 
councils  and  far-seeing  judgment,  could  not  share  in  the 
secrets  which  weighed  so  heavily  upon  the  girl. 

Jacky  had  not  experienced,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
very  great  difficulty  in  keeping  her  uncle  fast  to  the  grind- 
stone of  duty.  Whatever  his  faults  and  weaknesses,  John 
Allendale  was  first  of  all  a  rancher,  and  when  once  the 
winter  breaks  every  rancher  must  work  —  ay,  work  like  no 
negro  slave  ever  worked.  It  was  only  in  the  evenings,  when 
bodily  fatigue  had  weakened  the  purpose  of  ranching  habit, 
and  when  the  girl,  wearied  with  her  day's  work,  relaxed 
her  vigilance,  that  the  old  man  craved  for  the  object  of  his 
passion  and  its  degrading  accompaniment.  Then  he  would 
nibble  at  the  whisky  bottle,  having  "  earned  his  tonic,"  as 
he  would  say,  until  the  potent  spirit  had  warmed  his  courage 
and  he  would  hurry  off  to  the  saloon  for  "  half  an  hour's 
flutter,"  which  generally  terminated  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  Foss  River  Ranch 
when  Lablache  put  into  execution  his  threats  against  the 
Hon.  Bunning-Ford.  The  settlement  had  returned  to  its 
customary  torpid  serenity.  The  round-up  was  over,  and 
all  the  "  hands  "  had  returned  to  the  various  ranches  to 
which  they  belonged.  The  little  place  had  entered  upon 
its  period  of  placid  sleep,  which  would  last  until  the  advent 
of  the  farmers  to  spend  the  proceeds  of  their  garnered 
harvest.  But  this  would  be  much  later  in  the  year,  and 
in  the  meantime  Foss  River  would  sleep. 

The  night  before  the  sale  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  ranch,  he  and 
Jacky  went  for  a  ride.  They  had  thus  ridden  out  on  many 


LABLACHE  FORCES  THE  FIGHT  123 

evenings  of  late.  Old  John  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own 
affairs  to  bother  himself  at  these  evening  journeyings, 
although,  in  his  careless  way,  he  noticed  how  frequent  a 
visitor  at  the  ranch  Bill  had  lately  become.  Still,  he  made  no 
objection.  If  his  niece  saw  fit  to  encourage  these  visits  he 
would  not  interfere.  In  his  eyes  the  girl  could  do  no  wrong. 
It  was  his  one  redeeming  feature,  his  love  for  the  motherless 
girl,  and  although  his  way  of  showing  it  was  more  than 
open  to  criticism,  it  was  true  he  loved  her  with  a  deep,  strong 
affection. 

Foss  River  was  far  too  sleepy  to  bother  about  these  com- 
ings and  goings.  Lablache,  alone,  of  the  sleepy  hamlet, 
eyed  the  evening  journeys  with  suspicion.  But  even  he  was 
unable  to  fathom  their  object,  and  was  forced  to  set  them 
down,  his  whole  being  consumed  with  jealousy  the  while, 
to  lovers'  wanderings.  However,  these  nightly  rides  were 
taken  with  purpose.  After  galloping  across  the  prairie  in 
various  directions  they  always,  as  darkness  crept  on,  ter- 
minated at  a  certain  spot  —  the  clump  of  willows  and  reeds 
at  which  the  secret  path  across  the  great  keg  began. 

The  sun  was  well  down  below  the  distant  mountain 
peaks  when  Jacky  and  her  lover  reached  the  scrubby  bush 
of  willows  and  reeds  upon  the  evening  before  the  day  of 
the  sale  of  Bill's  ranch.  As  they  drew  up  their  panting 
horses,  and  dismounted,  the  evening  twilight  was  deepen- 
ing over  the  vast  expanse  of  the  mire. 

The  girl  stood  at  the  brink  of  the  bottomless  caldron  of 
viscid  muck  and  gazed  out  across  the  deadly  plain.  Bill 
stood  still  beside  her,  watching  her  face  with  eager,  hungry 
eyes. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  last,  as  his  impatience  forced  itself 
to  his  lips. 

"  Yes,  Bill,"  the  girl  answered  slowly,  as  one  balancing 
her  decision  well  before  giving  judgment,  "  the  path  has 
widened.  The  rain  has  kept  off  long  enough,  and  the  sun 
has  done  his  best  for  us.  It  is  a  good  omen.  Follow 
me." 


124     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

She  linked  her  arm  through  the  reins  of  her  horse's  bridle, 
and  leading  the  faithful  animal,  stepped  fearlessly  out  on 
to  the  muskeg.  As  she  trod  the  rotten  crust  she  took  a  zig- 
zag direction  from  one  side  of  the  secret  path  to  the  other. 
That  which,  in  early  spring,  had  scarcely  been  six  feet  in 
width,  would  now  have  borne  ten  horsemen  abreast. 
Presently  she  turned  back.  "We  need  go  no  further,  Bill; 
what  is  safe  here  continues  safe  across  the  keg.  It  will 
widen  in  places,  but  in  no  place  will  the  path  grow 
narrower." 

"  But  tell  me,"  said  the  man,  anxious  to  assure  himself 
that  no  detail  was  forgotten,  "  what  about  the  trail  of  our 
footprints?" 

The  girl  laughed.  Then  indenting  the  ground  with  her 
shapely  boot  until  the  moisture  below  oozed  into  the  im- 
print, she  looked  up  into  the  lazy  face  before  her. 

"  See  —  we  wait  for  one  minute,  and  you  shall  see  the 
result" 

They  waited  in  silence  in  the  growing  darkness.  The 
night  insects  and  mosquitoes  buzzed  around  them.  The 
man's  attention  was  riveted  upon  the  impression  made  by 
the  girl's  foot.  Slowly  the  water  filled  the  print,  then  slowly, 
under  the  moist  influence,  the  ground,  sponge-like,  rose 
again,  the  water  disappeared,  and  all  sign  of  the  footmark 
was  gone. 

When  again  the  ground  had  resumed  its  natural  appear- 
ance the  girl  looked  up. 

"Are  you  satisfied,  Bill?  No  man  or  beast  who  passes 
over  this  path  leaves  a  trail  which  lasts  longer  than  a 
minute.  Even  the  rank  grass,  however  badly  trodden  down, 
rears  itself  again  with  amazing  vitality.  I  guess  this  place 
was  created  through  the  devil's  agency  and  for  the  purpose 
of  devil's  work." 

Bill  gave  one  sweeping  glance  around.  Then  he  turned, 
and  the  two  made  their  way  back  to  the  edge  of  the  sucking 
mire. 

"  Yes,  it'll  do,  dear.    Now  let  us  hasten  home." 


LABLACHE  FORCES  THE  FIGHT  125 

They  remounted  their  horses  and  were  soon  lost  in  the 
gathering  darkness  as  they  made  their  way  over  the  brow 
of  the  rising  ground,  in  the  direction  of  the  settlement. 

The  next  day  saw  the  possession  of  the  Hon.  Bunning- 
Ford's  ranch  <  pass  into  other  hands.  Punctually  at  noon 
the  sale  began.  And  by  four  o'clock  the  process,  which 
robbed  the  rancher  of  everything  that  he  possessed  in  the 
world,  was  completed. 

Bill  stationed  himself  on  the  veranda  and  smoked  in- 
cessantly while  the  sale  proceeded.  He  was  there  to  see 
how  the  things  went,  and,  in  fact,  seemed  to  take  an  out- 
sider's interest  only.  He  experienced  no  morbid  sentiment 
at  the  loss  of  his  property  —  it  is  doubtful  if  he  cared  at  all. 
Anyhow,  his  leisurely  attitude  and  his  appearance  of  good- 
natured  indifference  caused  many  surprised  remarks  amongst 
the  motley  collection  of  bidders  who  were  present.  In  spite 
of  these  appearances,  however,  he  did  take  a  very  keen  in- 
terest. A  representative  of  Lablache's  was  there  to  purchase 
stock,  and  Bill  knew  it,  and  his  interest  was  centered  on  this 
would-be  purchaser. 

The  stock  was  the  last  thing  to  come  under  the  hammer. 
There  were  twenty  lots.  Of  these  Lablache's  representative 
purchased  fifteen  —  three-quarters  of  the  stock  of  the  entire 
ranch. 

Bill  waited  only  for  this,  then,  as  the  sale  closed,  he 
leisurely  rolled  and  lit  another  cigarette  and  strolled  to 
where  a  horse,  which  he  had  borrowed  from  the  Allendales' 
stable,  was  tied,  and  rode  slowly  away. 

As  he  rode  away  he  turned  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  house  upon  the  hill.  He  was  leaving  for  good  and  all 
the  place  which  had  so  long  claimed  him  as  master.  He 
saw  the  small  gathering  of  people  still  hanging  about  the 
veranda,  upon  which  the  auctioneer  still  stood  with  his 
clerk,  busy  over  the  sales.  He  noticed  others  passing  hither 
and  thither,  as  they  prepared  to  depart  with  their  purchases. 
But  none  of  these  things  which  he  looked  upon  affected 
him  in  any  mawkish,  sentimental  manner.  It  was  all  over. 


126     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

That  little  hill,  with  its  wooded  background  and  vast  front- 
age of  prairie,  from  which  he  had  loved  to  watch  the  sun 
get  up  after  its  nightly  sojourn,  would  know  him  no  more. 
His  indifference  was  unassumed.  His  was  not  the  nature 
to  regret  past  follies. 

He  smiled  softly  as  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  future 
which  lay  before  him,  and  his  smile  was  not  in  keeping  with 
the  expression  of  a  broken  man. 

In  these  last  days  of  waning  prosperity  Bunning-Ford 
had  noticeably  changed.  With  loss  of  property  he  had  lost 
much  of  that  curious  veneer  of  indolence,  utter  disregard  of 
consequences,  which  had  always  been  his.  Not  that  he 
had  suddenly  developed  a  violent  activity  or  boisterous  en- 
thusiasm. Simply  his  interest  in  things  and  persons  seemed 
to  have  received  a  fillip.  There  seemed  to  be  an  air  of 
latent  activity  about  him;  a  setness  of  purpose  which  must 
have  been  patent  to  any  one  sufficiently  interested  to  observe 
the  young  rancher  closely.  But  Foss  River  was  too  sleepy 
—  indifferent  —  to  worry  itself  about  anybody,  except  those 
in  its  ranks  who  were  riding  the  high  horse  of  success. 
Those  who  fell  out  by  the  wayside  were  far  too  numerous  to 
have  more  than  a  passing  thought  devoted  to  them.  So  this 
subtle  change  in  the  man  was  allowed  to  pass  without  com- 
ment by  any  except,  perhaps,  the  money-lender,  Lablache, 
and  the  shrewd,  kindly  wife  of  the  doctor  —  people  not  much 
given  to  gossip. 

It  was  only  since  the  discovery  of  Lablache's  perfidy  that 
"  Lord  "  Bill  had  understood  what  living  meant.  His  dis- 
covery in  Smith's  saloon  had  roused  in  him  a  very  human 
manhood.  Since  that  time  he  had  been  seized  with  a  mental 
activity,  a  craving  for  action  he  had  never,  in  all  his  lazy 
life,  before  experienced.  This  sudden  change  had  been  ag- 
gravated by  Lablache's  subsequent  conduct,  and  the  flame 
had  been  fanned  by  the  right  that  Jacky  had  given  him  to 
protect  her.  The  sensation  was  one  of  absorbing  excite- 
ment, and  the  loss  of  property  sat  lightly  upon  him  in  con- 
sequence. Money  he  had  not  —  property  he  had  not.  But 


LABLACHE  FORCES  THE  FIGHT  127 

he  had  now  what  he  had  never  possessed  before  —  he  had  an 
object. 

A  lasting,  implacable  vengeance  was  his,  from  the  con- 
templation of  which  he  drew  a  satisfaction  which  no  posses- 
sion of  property  could  have  given  him.  Nature  had,  with 
incorrigible  perversity,  cut  him  out  for  a  life  of  ease,  whilst 
endowing  him  with  a  character  capable  of  very  great  things. 
Now,  in  her  waywardness  she  had  aroused  that  character  and 
overthrown  the  hindering  superficialty  in  which  she  had 
clothed  it.  And  further  to  mark  her  freakish  mood,  these 
same  capabilities  which  might  easily,  under  other  circum- 
stances, have  led  him  into  the  fore-front  of  life's  battle,  she 
directed,  with  inexorable  cruelty,  into  an  adverse  course.  He 
had  been  cheated,  robbed,  and  his  soul  thirsted  for  revenge. 
Lablache  had  robbed  the  uncle  of  the  girl  he  loved,  and, 
worse  than  all,  the  wretch  had  tried  to  oust  him  from  the 
affections  of  the  girl  herself.  Yes,  he  thirsted  for  revenge 
as  might  any  traveler  in  a  desert  crave  for  water.  His 
eyes,  no  longer  sleepy,  gleamed  as  he  thought.  His  long, 
square  jaws  seemed  welded  into  one  as  he  thought  of  his 
wrongs.  His  was  the  vengeance  which,  if  necessary,  would 
last  his  lifetime.  At  least,  whilst  Lablache  lived  no  quarter 
would  he  give  or  accept. 

Something  of  this  he  was  thinking  as  he  took  his  farewell 
of  the  ranch  on  the  hill,  and  struck  out  in  the  direction  of  the 
half-breed  camp  situated  in  a  hollow  some  distance  outside 
the  settlement  of  Foss  River. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    FIRST    CHECK 

THE  afterglow  of  sunset  slowly  faded  out  of  the  western 
sky.  And  the  hush  of  the  night  was  over  all.  The  feeling 
of  an  awful  solitude,  which  comes  to  those  whose  business 
is  to  pass  the  night  on  the  open  prairie,  is  enhanced  rather 
than  reduced  by  the  buzz  of  insect  life  upon  the  night  air. 
The  steady  hum  of  the  mosquito  —  the  night  song  of  the 
grasshoppers  and  frogs  —  the  ticking,  spasmodic  call  of  the 
invisible  beetles  —  all  these  things  help  to  intensify  the  lone- 
liness and  magnitude  of  the  wild  surroundings.  Nor  does 
the  smoldering  camp-fire  lessen  the  loneliness.  Its  very 
light  deepens  the  surrounding  dark,  and  its  only  use,  after 
the  evening  meal  is  cooked,  is  merely  to  dispel  the  savage 
attack  of  the  voracious  mosquito  and  put  the  fear  of  man 
into  the  hearts  of  the  prairie  scavenger,  the  coyote,  whose 
dismal  howl  awakens  the  echoes  of  the  night  at  painfully 
certain  intervals,  and  often  drives  sleep  from  the  eyes  of 
the  weary  traveler. 

It  is  rare  that  the  "  cow-hand  "  pitches  his  camp  amongst 
hills,  or  in  the  neighborhood  of  any  bushy  growth.  The 
former  he  shuns  from  a  natural  dislike  for  a  limited  view. 
The  latter,  especially  if  the  bush  takes  the  form  of  pine 
woods,  is  bad  for  many  reasons,  chief  amongst  which  is  the 
fact  of  its  being  the  harborage  of  the  savage,  gigantic  timber 
wolf  —  a  creature  as  naturally  truculent  as  the  far-famed 
grizzly,  the  denizen  of  the  towering  Rockies. 

Upon  a  high  level  of  the  prairie,  out  towards  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  Rainy  River,  a  tributary  of  the  broad,  swift- 
flowing  Foss  River,  and  some  fifteen  miles  from  the  settle- 

128 


THE  FIRST  CHECK  129 

ment,  two  men  were  lounging,  curled  leisurely  round  the 
smoldering  remains  of  a  camp  fire.  Some  distance  away 
the  occasional  lowing  of  a  cow  betrayed  the  presence  of  a 
band  of  cattle. 

The  men  were  wide  awake  and  smoking.  Whether  they 
refrained  from  sleep  through  necessity  or  inclination  matters 
little.  Probably  the  hungry  attacks  of  the  newly-hatched 
mosquito  were  responsible  for  their  wakefulness.  Each  man 
was  wrapped  in  a  single  brown  blanket,  and  folded  saddle- 
cloth answered  as  a  pillow,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  they 
were  stretched  out  well  to  leeward  of  the  fire,  so  that  the 
smoke  passed  across  them,  driving  away  a  few  of  the  less 
audacious  "  skitters." 

"  We'll  get  'em  in  by  dinner  to-morrow,"  said  one  of  the 
sleepless  men  thoughtfully.  His  remark  was  more  in  the 
tone  of  soliloquy  than  addressed  to  the  other.  Then  louder, 
and  in  a  manner  which  implied  resentment,  "Them  all- 
fired  skitters  is  givin'  me  a  twistin'." 

"  Smoke  up,  pard,"  came  a  muffled  rejoinder  from  the 
region  of  the  other  blanket.  "  Maybe  your  hide's  a  bit 
tender  yet.  I  'lows  skitters  'most  allus  goes  fur  young  'uns. 
Guess  I'm  all  right." 

"  Dessay  you  are,"  replied  the  first  speaker,  sharply.  "  I 
ain't  been  long  in  the  country  —  leastways,  not  on  the  prairie, 
an'  like  as  not  I  ain't  dropped  into  the  ways  o'  things.  I've 
allus  heerd  as  washin'  is  mighty  bad  when  skitters  is  around. 
They  doesn't  worry  you  any." 

He  pulled  heavily  at  his  pipe  until  his  face  was  enveloped 
in  a  fog  of  smoke.  His  companion's  tone  of  patronage  had 
nettled  him.  The  old  hand  moved  restlessly  but  did  not 
answer.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  other's  sarcasm  had  been  ob- 
served. It  was  scarcely  broad  enough  to  penetrate  the 
toughened  hide  of  the  older  hand's  susceptibilities. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  man's  voice  in  the  distance. 
The  sound  of  an  old  familiar  melody,  chanted  in  a  manly 
and  not  unmusical  voice,  reached  the  fireside.  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  man  who  was  on  watch  round  the  band  of 


130     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

cattle,  and  he  was  endeavoring  to  lull  them  into  quiescence. 
The  human  voice,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  has  a  som- 
nolent effect  upon  cattle,  and  even  mosquitoes,  unless  they 
are  very  thick,  fail  to  counteract  the  effect.  The  older  hand 
stirred.  Then  he  sat  up  and  methodically  replenished  the 
fire,  kicking  the  dying  embers  together  until  they  blazed 
afresh. 

"  Jim  Bowley  do  sing  mighty  sweet,"  he  said,  in  disparag- 
ing tones.  "  Like  a  crazy  buzz-saw,  I  guess.  S'pose  them 
beasties  is  gettin'  kind  o'  restless.  Say,  Nat,  how  goes  the 
time?  It  must  be  night  on  ter  your  spell." 

Nat  sat  up  and  drew  out  a  great  silver  watch. 

"  Haf  an  hour  yet,  pard."  Then  he  proceeded  to  re-fill 
his  pipe,  cutting  great  flakes  of  black  tobacco  from  a  large 
plug  with  his  sheath  knife.  Suddenly  he  paused  in  the 
operation  and  listened.  "  Say,  Jake,  what's  that?  " 

"What's  what?"  replied  Jake,  roughly,  preparing  to  lie 
down  again. 

"Listen!" 

The  two  men  bent  their  keen,  prairie-trained  ears  to  wind- 
ward. They  listened  intently.  The  night  was  very  black 
—  as  yet  the  moon  had  not  risen.  Jake  used  his  eyes  as 
well  as  ears.  On  the  prairie,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  eyes  have 
a  lot  to  do  with  hearing.  He  sought  to  penetrate  the  dark- 
ness around  him,  but  his  efforts  were  unavailing.  He  could 
hear  no  sound  but  the  voice  of  Jim  Bowley  and  the  steady 
plodding  of  his  horse's  feet  as  he  ceaselessly  circled  the  band 
of  somnolent  cattle.  The  sky  was  cloudy,  and  only  here 
and  there  a  few  stars  gleamed  diamond-like  in  the  heavens, 
but  threw  insufficient  light  to  aid  the  eyes  which  sought  to 
penetrate  the  surrounding  gloom.  The  old  hand  threw  him- 
self back  on  his  pillow  in  skeptical  irritation. 

"Thar  ain't  nothin',  young  *un,"  he  said  disdainfully. 
"  The  beasties  is  quiet,  and  Jim  Bowley  ain't  no  tenderfoot. 
Say,  them  skitters  'as  rattled  yer.  Guess  you  'card  some 
prowl  in*  coyote.  They  allus  come  around  whar  ther's  a 
tenderfoot." 


THE  FIRST  CHECK  131 

Jake  curled  himself  up  again  and  chuckled  at  his  own 
sneering  pleasantry. 

"  Coyote  yerself ,  Jake  Bond/'  retorted  Nat,  angrily. 
"  Them  lugs  o'  yours  is  gettin'  old.  Guess  yer  drums  is 
saggin'.  You're  mighty  smart,  I  don't  think." 

The  youngster  got  on  to  his  feet  and  walked  to  where 
the  men's  two  horses  were  picketed.  Both  horses  were 
standing  with  ears  cocked  and  their  heads  held  high  in  the 
direction  of  the  mountains.  Their  attitude  was  the  acme 
of  alertness.  As  the  man  came  up  they  turned  towards 
him  and  whinnied  as  if  in  relief  at  the  knowledge  of  his 
presence.  But  almost  instantly  turned  again  to  gaze  far 
out  into  the  night.  Wonderful  indeed  is  a  horse's  instinct, 
but  even  more  wonderful  is  the  keenness  of  his  sight  and 
hearing. 

Nat  patted  his  broncho  on  the  neck,  and  then  stood  be- 
side him  watching  —  listening.  Was  it  fancy,  or  was  it 
fact?  The  faintest  sound  of  a  horse  galloping  reached  him; 
at  least,  he  thought  so. 

He  returned  to  the  fire  sullenly  antagonistic.  He  did 
not  return  to  his  blanket,  but  sat  silently  smoking  and  think- 
ing. He  hated  the  constant  reference  to  his  inexperience 
on  the  prairie.  If  even  he  did  hear  a  horse  galloping  in 
the  distance  it  didn't  matter.  But  it  was  his  ears  that  had 
first  caught  the  sound  in  spite  of  his  inexperience.  His 
companion  pigheadedly  derided  the  fact  because  his  own 
ears  were  not  sufficiently  keen  to  have  detected  the  sound 
himself. 

Thus  he  sat  for  a  few  minutes  gazing  into  the  fire.  Jake 
was  now  snoring  loudly,  and  Nat  was  glad  to  be  relieved 
from  the  tones  of  his  sneering  voice.  Presently  he  rose 
softly  from  his  seat,  and  taking  his  saddle  blanket,  saddled 
and  bridled  his  horse.  Then  he  mounted  and  silently  rode 
off  towards  the  herd.  It  was  his  relief  on  the  cattle  guard. 

Jim  Bowley  welcomed  him  with  the  genial  heartiness  of  a 
man  who  knows  that  he  has  finished  his  vigil  and  that  he 
can  now  lie  down  to  rest.  The  guarding  of  a  large  herd  at 


132     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

night  is  always  an  anxious  time.  Cattle  are  strange  things 
to  handle.  A  stampede  will  often  involve  a  week's  weary 
scouring  of  the  prairie. 

Just  as  Jim  Bowley  was  about  to  ride  up  to  the  camp, 
Nat  fired  a  question  which  he  had  been  some  time  medita- 
ting. 

"  Guess  you  didn't  hear  a  horse  gallopin'  jest  now,  paid  ?  " 
he  asked  quietly. 

"  Why  cert,  boy,"  the  other  answered  quickly,  "  only  a 
deaf  mule  could  'a*  missed  it.  Some  one  passed  right  under 
the  ridge  thar,  away  to  the  southwest.  Guess  they  wer' 
travelin'  mighty  fast  too.  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin',  Jim,  on'y  I  guess  Jake  Bond's  that  same 
deaf  mule  you  spoke  of.  He's  too  fond  of  gettin'  at 
youngsters,  the  old  fossil.  I  told  'im  as  I  'card  suthin',  an' 
'e  told  me  as  I  was  a  tenderfoot  and  didn't  know  wot  I 
was  gassin'  about." 

"Jake's  a  cantankerous  cuss,  boy.  Let  'im  gas;  'e  don't 
cut  any  figger  anyway.  Say,  you  keep  yer  eye  peeled  on 
some  o'  the  young  heifers  on  the  far  side  o'  the  bunch. 
They're  rustlin'  some.  They  keep  mouching  after  new 
grass.  When  the  moon  gits  up  you'll  see  better.  S'long, 
mate." 

Jim  rode  away  towards  the  camp  fire,  and  young  Nat 
proceeded  to  circle  round  the  great  herd  of  cattle.  It  was 
a  mighty  bunch  for  three  men  to  handle.  But  Lablache, 
its  owner,  was  never  one  to  underwork  his  men.  This  was 
the  herd  which  he  had  purchased  at  the  sale  of  Bunning- 
Ford's  ranch.  And  they  were  now  being  taken  to  his  own 
ranch,  some  distance  to  the  south  of  the  settlement,  for  the 
purpose  of  re-branding  with  his  own  marks. 

As  young  Nat  entered  upon  his  vigil  the  golden  arc  of 
the  rising  moon  broke  the  sky-line  of  the  horizon.  Already 
the  clouds  were  fast  clearing,  being  slowly  driven  before  the 
yellow  glory  of  the  orb  of  night.  Soon  the  prairie  would 
be  bathed  in  the  effulgent,  silvery  light  which  renders  the 
western  night  so  delicious  when  the  moon  is  at  its  full. 


THE  FIRST  CHECK  133 

As  the  cowboy  circled  the  herd,  the  moon,  at  first  directly 
to  his  left,  slowly  dropped  behind  until  its,  as  yet,  dull  light 
shone  full  upon  his  back.  The  beasts  were  quite  quiet  and 
the  sense  of  responsibility  which  was  his,  in  a  measure, 
lessened. 

Some  distance  ahead,  and  near  by  where  he  must  pass,  a 
clump  of  undergrowth  and  a  few  stunted  trees  grew  round 
the  base  of  a  hillock  and  broken  rocks.  The  cattle  were  re- 
posing close  up  by  this  shelter.  Nat's  horse,  as  he  drew 
near  to  the  brush,  was  ambling  along  at  that  peculiar  gait, 
half  walk,  half  trot,  essentially  the  pace  of  a  "  cow-horse." 
Suddenly  the  animal  came  to  a  stand,  for  which  there  seemed 
no  apparent  reason.  He  stood  for  a  second  with  ears  cocked, 
sniffing  at  the  night  air  in  evident  alarm.  Then  a  prolonged, 
low  whistle  split  the  air.  The  sound  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  rocks,  and,  to  the  tenderfoot's  ears,  constituted  a 
signal. 

The  most  natural  thing  for  him  to  have  done  would  have 
been  to  wait  for  further  developments,  if  developments  there 
were  to  be.  However,  he  was  a  plucky  youngster,  in  spite  of 
his  inexperience,  and,  besides,  something  of  the  derision  of 
Jake  Bond  was  still  rankling  in  his  mind.  He  knew  the 
whistle  to  be  the  effort  of  some  man,  and  his  discovery  of 
the  individual  would  further  prove  the  accuracy  of  his  hear- 
ing, and  he  would  then  have  the  laugh  of  his  companion. 
A  more  experienced  hand  would  have  first  looked  to  his  six- 
shooter  and  thought  of  cattle  thieves,  but,  as  Jake  had  said, 
he  was  a  tenderfoot  Instead,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
he  dashed  his  spurs  into  his  broncho's  flanks  and  swept 
round  to  the  shadowed  side  of  the  rocks. 

He  realized  his  folly  when  too  late.  The  moment  he 
entered  the  shade  there  came  the  slithering  whirr  of  some- 
thing cutting  through  the  air.  Something  struck  the  horse's 
front  legs,  and  the  next  moment  he  shot  out  of  the  saddle  in 
response  to  a  somersault  which  the  broncho  turned.  His 
horse  had  been  roped  by  one  of  his  front  legs.  The  cowboy 
lay  where  he  fell,  dazed  and  half  stunned.  Then  he  be- 


134      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

came  aware  of  three  dark  faces  bending  over  him.  An 
instant  later  a  gag  was  forced  into  his  mouth,  and  he  felt 
himself  being  bound  hand  and  foot.  Then  the  three  faces 
silently  disappeared,  and  all  was  quiet  about  him. 

In  the  meantime,  on  the  rising  ground,  where  the  camp 
fire  burned,  all  was  calm  slumber.  The  two  old  hands  were 
taking  their  rest  with  healthy  contentment  and  noisy  asser- 
tion. The  glory  of  the  rising  moon  was  lost  to  the  slum- 
berers,  and  no  dread  of  coming  disaster  disturbed  them.  The 
stertorous  blasts  of  their  nostrils  testified  to  this.  The  re- 
plenished fire  slowly  died  down  to  a  mass  of  white  smolder- 
ing ashes,  and  the  chill-growing  air  caused  one  of  the 
sleepers  to  move  restlessly  in  his  sleep  and  draw  his  head 
down  beneath  his  blanket  for  greater  warmth. 

Up  the  slope  came  three  figures.  They  were  moving  with 
cautious,  stealthy  step,  the  movement  of  men  whose  purpose 
is  not  open.  On  they  came  swiftly  —  silently.  One  man 
led;  he  was  tall  and  swarthy  with  long  black  hair  falling 
upon  his  shoulders  in  straight,  coarse  mass.  He  was  evi- 
dently a  half-breed,  and  his  clothes  denoted  him  to  be  of 
the  poorer  class  —  a  class  accustomed  to  live  by  preying 
upon  its  white  neighbors.  He  was  clad  in  a  pair  of  mole- 
skin trousers,  which  doubtless  at  one  time  had  been  white, 
but  which  now  were  of  that  nondescript  hue  which  dirt 
conveys.  His  upper  garments  were  a  beaded  buckskin  shirt 
and  a  battered  Stetson  hat.  Around  his  waist  was  a 
cartridge  belt,  on  which  was  slung  a  holster  containing  a 
heavy  six-chambered  revolver  and  a  long  sheath  knife. 

His  companions  were  similarly  equipped,  and  the  three 
formed  a  wild  picture  of  desperate  resolve.  Yard  by  yard 
they  drew  toward  the  sleepers,  at  each  step  listening  for  the 
loud  indications  of  sleep  which  were  made  only  too  apparent 
upon  the  still  night  air.  Now  they  were  close  upon  the 
fire.  One  of  the  unconscious  cow-boys,  Jim  Bowley,  stirred. 
A  moment  passed.  Then  the  intruders  drew  a  step  nearer. 
Suddenly  Jim  roused  and  then  sat  up.  His  action  at  once 
became  a  signal.  There  was  a  sound  of  swift  footsteps,  and 


THE  FIRST  CHECK  135 

the  next  instant  the  astonished  man  was  gazing  into  the 
muzzle  of  a  heavy  pistol. 

"  Hands  up !  "  cried  the  voice  of  the  leading  half-breed. 
One  of  his  followers  had  similarly  covered  the  half-awakened 
Jake. 

Without  a  word  of  remonstrance  two  pairs  of  hands  went 
up.  Astonishment  had  for  the  moment  paralyzed  speech  on 
the  part  of  the  rudely  awakened  sleepers.  They  were  only 
dimly  conscious  of  their  assailants.  The  compelling  rings 
of  metal  that  confronted  them  weighed  the  balance  of  their 
judgment,  and  their  response  was  the  instinctive  response  of 
the  prairie.  Whoever  their  assailants,  they  had  got  the  drop 
on  them.  The  result  was  the  law  of  necessity. 

In  depressing  silence  the  assailants  drew  their  captives' 
weapons.  Then,  after  binding  their  arms,  the  leader  bade 
them  rise.  His  voice  was  harsh  and  his  accent  "  South- 
western "  American.  Then  he  ordered  them  to  march,  the 
inexorable  pistol  ever  present  to  enforce  obedience.  In 
silence  the  two  men  were  conducted  to  the  bush  where  the 
first  capture  had  been  made.  And  here  they  were  firmly 
tied  to  separate  trees  with  their  own  lariats. 

"  See  hyar,"  said  the  tall  half-breed,  as  the  captives'  feet 
were  bound  securely.  "  There  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  shootin'. 
You're  that  sensible.  You're  jest  goin'  to  remain  right  hyar 
till  daylight,  or  mebbe  later.  A  gag'll  prevent  your  gassin'. 
You're  right  in  the  track  of  white  men,  so  I  guess  you'll  do. 
See  hyar,  bo',  jest  shut  it,"  as  Jim  Bowley  essayed  to  speak, 
"  cause  my  barker's  itchin'  to  join  in  a  conversation." 

The  threat  had  a  quieting  effect  upon  poor  Jim,  who  im- 
mediately closed  his  lips.  Silent  but  watchful  he  eyed  the 
half-breed's  face.  There  was  something  very  familiar  about 
the  thin  cheeks,  high  cheek-bones,  and  about  the  great 
hooked  nose.  He  was  struggling  hard  to  locate  the  man.  At 
this  moment  the  third  ruffian  approached  with  three  horses. 
The  other  had  been  busy  fixing  a  gag  in  Jake  Bond's  mouth. 
Jim  Bowley  saw  the  horses  come  up.  And,  in  the  now  bril- 
liant moonlight,  he  beheld  and  recognized  a  grand-looking 


136     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

golden  chestnut.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  glorious 
beast.  Jim  was  no  tenderfoot;  he  had  been  on  the  prairie 
in  this  district  for  years.  And  although  he  had  never  come 
into  actual  contact  with  the  man,  he  had  seen  him  and  knew 
about  the  exploits  of  the  owner  of  that  perfect  animal. 

The  half-breed  approached  him  with  an  improvised  gag. 
For  the  life  of  him  Jim  could  not  resist  a  temptation  which 
at  that  moment  assailed  him.  The  threatening  attitude  of 
his  captor  for  the  instant  had  lost  its  effect.  If  he  died  for 
it  he  must  blurt  out  his  almost  superstitious  astonishment. 

The  half-breed  seized  his  prisoner's  lower  jaw  in  his 
hand  and  compressed  the  cheeks  upon  the  teeth.  Jim's  lips 
parted,  and  a  horrified  amazement  found  vent  in  words. 

"Holy  Gawd!  man.  But  be  ye  flesh  or  sperrit?  Peter 
Retief  —  as  I'm  a  livin'  — " 

He  said  no  more,  for,  with  a  wrench,  the  gag  was  forced 
into  his  mouth  by  the  relentless  hand  of  the  man  before 
him.  Although  he  was  thus  silenced  his  eyes  remained 
wide  open  and  staring.  The  dark  stern  face,  as  he  saw  it, 
was  magnified  into  that  of  a  fiend.  The  keen  eyes  and 
depressed  brows,  he  thought,  might  belong  to  some  devil 
re-incarnated,  whilst  the  eagle-beaked  nose  and  thin-com- 
pressed lips  denoted,  to  his  distorted  fancy,  a  sanguinary 
cruelty.  At  the  mention  of  his  name  this  forbidding 
apparition  flashed  a  vengeful  look  at  the  speaker,  and  a 
half  smile  of  utter  disdain  flickered  unnoticed  around  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

Once  his  prisoners  were  secured  the  dark-visaged  cattle- 
thief  turned  to  the  horses.  At  a  word  the  trio  mounted. 
Then  they  rode  off,  and  the  wretched  captives  beheld,  to 
their  unspeakable  dismay,  the  consummate  skill  with  which 
the  cattle  were  roused  and  driven  off.  Away  they  went 
with  reckless  precipitance,  the  cattle  obeying  the  master 
hand  of  the  celebrated  raider  with  an  implicitness  which 
seemed  to  indicate  a  strange  sympathy  between  man  and 
beast.  The  great  golden  chestnut  raced  backwards  and 
forwards  like  some  well-trained  greyhound,  heading  the 


THE  FIRST  CHECK  137 

leading  beasts  into  the  desired  direction  without  effort  or 
apparent  guidance.  It  was  a  grand  display  of  the  cowboy's 
art,  and,  in  spite  of  his  predicament  and  the  cruel  tightness 
of  his  bonds,  Jim  Bowley  reveled  in  the  sight  of  such  a 
display. 

In  five  minutes  the  great  herd  was  out  of  sight,  and  only 
the  distant  rumble  of  their  speeding  hoofs  reached  the 
captives.  Later,  the  moon,  no  longer  golden,  but  shedding 
a  silvery  radiance  over  all,  shone  down  upon  a  peaceful 
plain.  The  night  hum  of  insects  was  undisturbed.  The 
mournful  cry  of  the  coyote  echoed  at  intervals,  but  near  by, 
where  the  camp  fire  no  longer  put  the  fear  of  man  into  the 
hearts  of  the  scavengers  of  the  prairie,  all  was  still  and 
calm.  The  prisoners  moaned  softly,  but  not  loud  enough 
to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  perfect  night,  as  their  cruel  bonds 
gnawed  at  their  patience.  For  the  rest,  the  Western  world 
had  resumed  its  wonted  air. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  HUE  AND  CRY 

"A  THOUSAND  head  of  cattle,  John!  A  thousand;  and 
'  hustled '  from  under  our  very  noses.  By  thunder !  it  is 
intolerable.  Over  thirty-five  thousand  dollars  gone  in  one 
clean  sweep.  Why,  I  say,  do  we  pay  for  the  up-keep  of  the 
police  if  this  sort  of  thing  is  allowed  to  go  on?  It  is  dis- 
graceful. It  means  ruination  to  the  country  if  a  man  can- 
not run  his  stock  without  fear  of  molestation.  Who  said 
that  scoundrel  Retief  was  dead  —  drowned  in  the  great  mus- 
keg? It's  all  poppy-cock,  I  tell  you;  the  man's  as  much 
alive  as  you  or  I.  Thirty-five  thousand  dollars!  By 
heavens !  —  it's  —  it's  scandalous !  " 

Lablache  leant  forward  heavily  in  his  chair  and  rested  his 
great  arms  upon  John  Allandale's  desk.  "  Poker "  John 
and  he  were  seated  in  the  former's  office,  whither  the  money- 
lender had  come,  post-haste,  on  receiving  the  news  of  the 
daring  raid  of  the  night  before.  The  great  man's  voice 
was  unusually  thick  with  rage,  and  his  asthmatical  breath- 
ing came  in  great  gusts  as  his  passionate  excitement  grew 
under  the  lash  of  his  own  words.  The  old  rancher  gazed  in 
stupefied  amazement  at  the  financier.  He  had  not  as  yet 
fully  realized  the  fact  with  which  he  had  just  been  ac- 
quainted in  terms  of  such  sweeping  passion.  The  old  man's 
brain  was  none  too  clear  in  the  mornings  now.  And  the 
suddenness  of  the  announcement  had  shocked  his  faculties 
into  a  state  of  chaos. 

"Terrible  —  terrible,"  was  all  he  was  able  to  murmur. 
Then,  bracing  himself,  he  asked  weakly,  "  But  what  are  you 
to  do?" 

The  weather-beaten  old  face  was  working  nervously. 

138 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY  139 

The  eyes,  in  the  past  keen  and  direct  in  their  glance,  were 
bloodshot  and  troubled.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  was 
fast  breaking  up.  Very  different  from  the  night  when  we 
first  met  him  at  the  Calford  Polo  Club  ball.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  as  to  the  origin  of  this  swift  change.  The 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  man  spoke  of  drink. 

Lablache  turned  on  him  without  any  attempt  to  conceal 
the  latent  ferocity  of  his  nature.  The  heavy,  pouchy  jowl 
was  scarlet  with  his  rage.  The  money-lender  had  been 
flicked  upon  a  very  raw  and  tender  spot  Money  was  his 
god. 

"What  am  I  to  do?  "  he  retorted  savagely.  "What  are 
we  to  do?  What  is  all  the  ranching  world  of  Alberta  to  do? 
Why,  fight,  man.  Hound  this  scoundrel  to  his  lair.  Follow 
him  —  track  him.  Hunt  him  from  bush  to  bush  until  we 
fall  upon  him  and  tear  him  limb  from  limb.  Are  we  going 
to  sit  still  while  he  terrorizes  the  whole  country?  While  he 
'  hustles '  every  head  of  stock  from  us,  and  —  and  spirits  it 
away?  No,  if  we  spend  fortunes  upon  his  capture  we  must 
not  rest  until  he  swings  from  a  gibbet  at  the  end  of  his  own 
lariat." 

"  Yes,  of  course  —  of  course,"  the  rancher  responded,  his 
cheek  twitching  weakly.  "  You  are  quite  right,  we  must 
hunt  this  scoundrel  down.  But  we  know  what  has  gone 
before  —  I  mean,  before  he  was  supposed  to  have  died.  The 
man  could  never  be  traced.  He  seemed  to  vanish  into  thin 
air.  What  do  you  propose?  " 

"  Yes,  but  that  was  two  years  ago,"  said  Lablache,  mood- 
ily. "  Things  may  be  different  now.  A  thousand  head  of 
cattle  does  not  vanish  so  easily.  There  is  bound  to  be  some 
trace  left  behind.  And  then,  the  villain  has  only  got  a  short 
start  of  us.  I  sent  a  messenger  over  to  Stormy  Cloud  Settle- 
ment the  first  thing  this  morning.  A  sergeant  and  four  men 
will  be  sent  to  work  up  the  case.  I  expect  them  here  at 
any  moment  As  justices  of  the  peace  it  devolves  on  both 
of  us  to  set  an  example  to  the  settlers,  and  we  shall  then 
receive  hearty  co-operation.  You  understand,  John,"  the 


140     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

money-lender  went  on,  with  pompous  assertiveness,  "al- 
though, at  present,  I  am  the  chief  sufferer  by  this  scoundrel's 
depredations,  it  is  plainly  your  duty  as  much  as  mine  to  take 
this  matter  up." 

The  first  rough  storm  of  Lablache's  passion  had  passed. 
He  was  "  yanking  "  himself  up  to  the  proper  attitude  for  the 
business  in  hand.  Although  he  had  calmed  considerably 
his  lashless  eyes  gleamed  viciously,  and  his  flabby  face  wore 
an  expression  which  boded  ill  for  the  object  of  his  rage, 
should  that  unfortunate  ever  come  within  the  range  of  his 
power. 

"  Poker  "  John  was  struggling  hard  to  bring  a  once  keen 
intellect  to  bear  upon  the  affair.  He  had  listened  to  the 
money-lender's  account  of  the  raid  with  an  almost  doubtful 
understanding,  the  chief  shock  to  which  was  the  re-appear- 
ance of  the  supposed  dead  Retief ,  that  prince  of  "  hustlers," 
who,  two  years  ago,  had  terrorized  the  neighborhood  by 
his  impudent  raids.  At  last  his  mind  seemed  to  clear  and 
he  stood  up.  And,  bending  across  the  desk  as  though  to 
emphasize  his  words,  he  showed  something  of  the  old  spirit 
which  had,  in  days  gone  by,  made  him  a  successful  rancher. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Lablache.  This  is  some  damned 
yarn  to  cover  the  real  culprit.  Why,  man,  Peter  Retief  is 
buried  deep  in  that  reeking  keg,  and  no  slapsided  galoot's 
goin'  to  pitch  such  a  crazy  notion  as  his  resurrection  down 
my  throat.  Retief?  Why,  I'd  as  lief  hear  that  Satan  him- 
self was  abroad  duffing  cattle.  Bah !  Where's  the  *  hand  ' 
that's  gulled  you?" 

Lablache  eyed  the  old  man  curiously.  He  was  not  sure 
that  there  might  not  be  some  truth  in  the  rancher's  forcible 
skepticism.  For  the  moment  the  old  man's  words  carried 
some  weight,  then,  as  he  remembered  the  unvarnished  tale 
the  cowboy  had  told,  he  returned  to  his  conviction.  He 
shook  his  massive  head. 

"  No  one  has  gulled  me,  John.  You  shall  hear  the  story 
for  yourself  as  soon  as  the  police  arrive.  You  will  the  better 
be  able  to  judge  of  the  fellow's  sincerity." 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY  141 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  came  in 
through  the  open  window.  Lablache  glanced  out  on  to  the 
veranda. 

"  Ah,  here  he  is,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  they've  sent  Sergeant 
Horrocks.  The  very  man  for  the  work.  Good,"  and  he 
rubbed  his  fat  hands  together.  "  Horrocks  is  a  great  prairie 
man." 

"  Poker "  John  rose  and  went  out  to  meet  the  officer. 
Later  he  conducted  him  into  the  office.  Sergeant  Horrocks 
was  a  man  of  medium  height,  slightly  built,  but  with  an  air 
of  cat-like  agility  about  him.  He  was  very  bronzed,  with 
a  sharp,  rather  than  a  clever  face.  His  eyes  were  black  and 
restless,  and  a  thin  mouth,  hidden  beneath  a  trim  black 
mustache,  and  a  perfectly-shaped  aquiline  nose,  completed 
the  sum  of  any  features  which  might  be  called  distinctive. 
He  was  a  man  who  was  thoroughly  adapted  to  his  work  — 
work  which  needed  a  cool  head  and  quick  eye  rather  than 
great  mental  attainments.  He  was  dressed  in  a  brown  can- 
vas tunic  with  brass  buttons,  and  his  riding  breeches  were 
concealed  in  a  pair  of  well-worn  leather  "  chaps."  A  Stetson 
hat  worn  at  the  exact  angle  on  his  head,  with  his  official 
"  side  arms "  secured  round  his  waist,  completed  a  very 
picturesque  appearance. 

"  Morning,  Horrocks,"  said  the  money-lender.  "  This  is 
a  pretty  business  you've  come  down  on.  Left  your  men 
down  in  the  settlement,  eh?  " 

"Yes.  I  thought  I'd  come  and  hear  the  rights  of  the 
matter  straight  away.  According  to  your  message  you  are 
the  chief  victim  of  this  '  duffing '  business  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  replied  Lablache,  with  a  return  to  his  tone 
of  anger,  "  one  thousand  head  of  beeves !  Thirty-five  thou- 
sand dollars'  worth !  "  Then  he  went  on  more  calmly : 
"  But  wait  a  moment,  we'll  send  down  for  the  *  hand '  that 
brought  in  the  news." 

A  servant  was  despatched,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Jim 
Bowley  entered.  Jacky,  returning  from  the  corrals,  entered 
at  the  same  time.  Directly  she  had  seen  the  police  horse 


142     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

outside  she  knew  what  was  happening.  When  she  appeared 
Lablache  endeavored  to  conceal  a  look  of  annoyance. 
Sergeant  Horrocks  raised  his  eyebrows  in  surprise.  He  was 
not  accustomed  to  petticoats  being  present  at  his  councils. 
John,  however,  without  motive,  waived  all  chance  of  objec- 
tion by  anticipating  his  guests. 

"  Sergeant,  this  is  my  niece,  Jacky.  Affairs  of  the  prairie 
affect  her  as  nearly  as  they  do  myself.  Let  us  hear  what  this 
man  has  to  tell  us." 

Horrocks  half  bowed  to  the  girl,  touching  the  brim  of  his 
hat  with  a  semi-military  salute.  Acquiescence  to  her  pres- 
ence was  thus  forced  upon  him. 

Jacky  looked  radiant  in  spite  of  the  uncouthness  of  her 
riding  attire.  The  fresh  morning  air  was  the  tonic  she 
loved,  and,  as  yet,  the  day  was  too  young  for  the  tired 
shadows  to  have  crept  into  her  beautiful  face.  Horrocks, 
in  spite  of  his  tacit  objection,  was  forced  to  admire  the 
sturdy  young  face  of  this  child  of  the  prairie. 

Jim  Bowley  plunged  into  his  story  with  a  directness  and 
simplicity  which  did  not  fail  to  carry  conviction.  He  told 
all  he  knew  without  any  attempt  at  shielding  himself  or  his 
companions.  Horrocks  and  the  old  rancher  listened  care- 
fully to  the  story.  Lablache  looked  for  discrepancies  but 
found  none.  Jacky,  whilst  paying  every  attention,  keenly 
watched  the  face  of  the  money-lender.  The  seriousness  of 
the  affair  was  reflected  in  all  the  faces  present,  whilst  the 
daring  of  the  raid  was  acknowledged  by  the  upraised  brows 
and  wondering  ejaculations  which  occasionally  escaped  the 
police-officer  and  "  Poker "  John.  When  the  narrative 
came  to  a  close  there  followed  an  impressive  pause.  Hor- 
rocks was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  And  how  did  you  obtain  your  release  ?  " 

"  A  Mennonite  family,  which  had  bin  travelin*  all  night, 
came  along  'bout  an  hour  after  daylight.  They  pitched 
camp  nigh  on  to  a  quarter  mile  from  the  bluff  w'ere  we  was 
tied  up.  Then  they  came  right  along  to  look  fur  kindlin'. 
There  wasn't  no  other  bluff  for  half  a  mile  but  ours.  They 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY  143 

found  us  all  three.  Young  Nat  'ad  got  'is  collar-bone 
broke.  Them  'ustlers  'adn't  lifted  our  *  plugs'  so  I  jest 
came  right  in." 

"  Have  you  seen  these  Mennonites  ?  "  asked  the  officer, 
turning  sharply  to  the  money-lender. 

"  Not  yet,"  was  the  heavy  rejoinder.  "  But  they  are  com- 
ing in." 

The  significance  of  the  question  and  the  reply  nettled  the 
cowboy. 

"  See  hyar,  mister,  I  ain't  no  coyote  come  in  to  pitch 
yarns.  Wot  I've  said  is  gospel.  The  man  as  'eld  us  up 
was  Peter  Retief  as  sure  as  I'm  a  living  man.  Sperrits 
don't  walk  about  the  prairie  'ustling  cattle,  an'  I  guess  'is 
'and  was  an  a'mighty  solid  one,  as  my  jaw  felt  when  'e 
gagged  me.  You  take  it  from  me,  'e's  come  around  agin 
to  make  up  fur  lost  time,  an'  I  guess  'e's  made  a  tidy  haul 
to  start  with." 

"  Well,  we'll  allow  that  this  man  is  the  hustler  you  speak 
of,"  went  on  Horrocks,  bending  his  keen  eyes  severely  on 
the  unfortunate  cowboy.  "Now,  what  about  tracking  the 
cattle?" 

"  Guess  I  didn't  wait  fur  that,  but  it'll  be  easy  'nough." 

"  Ah,  and  you  didn't  recognize  the  man  until  you'd  seen 
his  horse?" 

The  officer  spoke  sharply,  like  a  counsel  cross-examining 
a  witness. 

"  Wai,  I  can't  say  like  that,"  said  Jim,  hesitating  for  the 
first  time.  "  His  looks  was  familiar,  I  'lows.  No,  without 
knowing  of  it  I'd  recognized  'im,  but  'is  name  didn't  come 
along  till  I  see  that  beast,  Golden  Eagle.  I  'lows  a  good 
prairie  hand  don't  make  no  mistake  over  cattle  like  that. 
'E  may  misgive  a  face,  but  a  beastie  —  no,  siree." 

"  So  you  base  your  recognition  of  the  man  on  the  identity 
of  his  horse.  A  doubtful  assertion." 

"  Thar  ain't  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  sergeant  Ef  you'll 
'ave  it  so,  I  did  —  some." 

The  officer  turned  to  the  other  men. 


144     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  If  there's  nothing  more  you  want  this  man  for,  gentle- 
men, I  have  quite  finished  with  him  —  for  the  present. 
With  your  permission,"  pulling  out  his  watch,  "  I'll  get 
him  to  take  me  to  the  er  —  scene  of  disaster  in  an  hour's 
time." 

The  two  men  nodded  and  Lablache  conveyed  the  neces- 
sary order  to  the  man,  who  then  withdrew. 

As  soon  as  Bowley  had  left  the  room  three  pairs  of  eyes 
were  turned  inquiringly  upon  the  officer. 

"  Well?  "  questioned  Lablache,  with  some  show  of  eager- 
ness. 

Horrocks  shrugged  a  pair  of  expressive  shoulders. 

"  From  his  point  of  view  the  man  speaks  the  truth,"  he 
replied  decisively.  "  And,"  he  went  on,  more  to  himself 
than  to  the  others,  "  we  never  had  any  clear  proof  that  the 
scoundrel,  Retief,  came  to  grief.  From  what  I  remember 
things  were  very  hot  for  him  at  the  time  of  his  disappear- 
ance. Maybe  the  man's  right.  However,"  turning  to  the 
others,  "  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  Mr.  Retief  has  over- 
reached himself  this  time.  A  thousand  head  of  cattle  cannot 
easily  be  hidden,  or,  for  that  matter,  disposed  of.  Neither 
can  they* travel  fast;  and  as  for  tracking,  well,"  with  a  shrug, 
"  in  this  case  it  should  be  child's  play." 

"  I  hope  it  will  prove  as  you  anticipate,"  put  in  John 
Allandale,  concisely.  "  What  you  suggest  has  been  ex- 
perienced by  us  before.  However,  the  matter,  I  feel  sure, 
is  in  capable  hands." 

The  officer  acknowledged  the  compliment  mechanically. 
He  was  thinking  deeply.  Lablache  struggled  to  his  feet, 
and,  supporting  his  bulk  with  one  hand  resting  upon  the 
desk,  gasped  out  his  final  words  upon  the  matter. 

"  I  want  you  to  remember,  sergeant,  this  matter  not  only 
affects  me  personally  but  also  in  my  capacity  as  a  justice  of 
the  peace.  To  whatever  reward  I  am  able  to  make  in  the 
name  of  H.  M.  Government  I  shall  add  the  sum  of  one 
thousand  dollars  for  the  recovery  of  the  cattle,  and  the 
additional  sum  of  one  thousand  dollars  for  the  capture  of 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY  145 

the  miscreant  himself.  I  have  determined  to  spare  no  ex- 
pense in  the  matter  of  hunting  this  devil,"  with  vindictive 
intensity, "  down,  therefore  you  can  draw  on  me  for  all  out- 
lay your  work  may  entail.  All  I  say  is,  capture  him.'7 

"  I  shall  do  my  best,  Mr.  Lablache,"  Horrocks  replied 
simply.  "  And  now,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  go  down 
to  the  settlement  to  give  a  few  orders  to  my  men.  Good- 
morning —  er  —  Miss  Allandale;  good  day,  gentlemen. 
You  will  hear  from  me  to-night." 

The  officer  left  in  all  the  pride  of  his  official  capacity. 
And  possibly  his  pride  was  not  without  reason,  for  many  and 
smart  were  the  captures  of  evil-doers  he  had  made  during 
his  career  as  a  keeper  of  the  peace.  But  we  have  been  told 
that  "  pride  goeth  before  a  fall."  His  estimation  of  a 
"  hustler  "  was  not  an  exalted  one.  He  was  accustomed  to 
dealing  with  men  who  shoot  quick  and  straight  • — "  bad 
men  "  in  fact  —  and  he  was  equally  quick  with  the  gun, 
and  a  dead  shot  himself.  Possibly  he  was  a  shade  quicker 
and  a  trifle  more  deadly  than  the  smartest  "bad  man" 
known,  but  now  he  was  dealing  with  a  man  of  all  these  neces- 
sary attainments  and  whose  resourcefulness  and  cleverness 
were  far  greater  than  his  own.  Sergeant  Horrocks  had  a 
harder  road  to  travel  than  he  anticipated. 

Lablache  took  his  departure  shortly  afterwards,  and 
"  Poker  "  John  and  his  niece  were  left  in  sole  possession  of 
the  office  at  the  ranch. 

The  old  man  looked  thoroughly  wearied  with  the  mental 
effort  the  interview  had  entailed  upon  him.  And  Jacky, 
watching  him,  could  not  help  noticing  how  old  her  uncle 
looked.  She  had  been  a  silent  observer  in  the  foregoing 
scene,  her  presence  almost  ignored  by  the  other  actors. 
Now,  however,  that  they  were  left  alone,  the  old  man  turned 
a  look  of  appealing  helplessness  upon  her.  Such  was  the 
rancher's  faith  in  this  wild,  impetuous  girl  that  he  looked 
for  her  judgment  on  what  had  passed  in  that  room  with  the 
ready  faith  of  one  who  regards  her  as  almost  infallible,  where 
human  intellect  is  needed.  Nor  was  the  girl,  herself,  slow  to 


146     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

respond  to  his  mute  inquiry.  The  swiftness  of  her  answer 
enhanced  the  tone  of  her  conviction. 

"Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief,  Uncle  John.  I  guess 
Horrocks,  in  spite  of  his  shifty  black  eyes,  isn't  the  man  for 
the  business.  He  might  track  the  slimmest  neche  that  ever 
crossed  the  back  of  a  choyeuse.  Lablache  is  the  man 
Retief  has  to  fear.  That  uncrowned  monarch  of  Foss 
River  is  subtle,  and  subtlety  alone  will  serve.  Horrocks?  " 
with  fine  disdain,  "  Say,  you  can't  shoot  snipe  with  a  pea- 
shooter." 

"That's  so,"  replied  John,  with  weary  thoughtlessness. 
"  Do  you  know,  child,  I  can't  help  feeling  a  strange  satis- 
faction that  this  Retief's  victim  is  Lablache.  But  there, 
one  never  knows,  when  such  a  man  is  about,  who  will  be 
the  next  to  suffer.  I  suppose  we  must  take  our  chance 
and  trust  to  the  protection  of  the  police." 

The  girl  had  walked  to  the  window  and  now  stood 
framed  in  the  casement  of  it.  She  turned  her  face  back 
towards  the  old  man  as  he  finished  speaking,  and  a  quiet 
little  smile  hovered  round  the  corners  of  her  fresh  ripe 
lips. 

"  I  don't  think  Retief  will  bother  us  any  —  at  least,  he 
never  did  before.  Somehow  I  don't  think  he's  an  ordinary 
rascal."  She  turned  back  to  the  window.  "  Hulloa,  I 
guess  Bill's  coming  right  along  up  the  avenue." 

A  moment  later  "  Lord  "  Bill,  lazily  cheerful  as  was  his 
wont,  stepped  in  through  the  open  French  window.  The 
selling  up  of  his  ranch  seemed  to  have  made  little  difference 
to  his  philosophical  temperament.  In  his  appearance,  per- 
haps, for  now  he  no  longer  wore  the  orthodox  dress  of  the 
rancher.  He  was  clad  in  a  tweed  lounging  suit,  and  a  pair 
of  well-polished,  brown  leather  boots.  His  headgear  alone 
pertained  to  the  prairie.  It  was  a  Stetson  hat.  He  was 
smoking  a  cigarette  as  he  came  up,  but  he  threw  the  in- 
sidious weed  from  him  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"Morning,  John.  How  are  you,  Jacky?  I  needn't  ask 
you  if  you  have  heard  the  news.  I  saw  Sergeant  Horrocks 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY  147 

and  old  Shylock  leaving  your  veranda.  Hot  lot  —  isn't  it? 
And  all  Lablache's  cattle,  too." 

A  look  of  deep  concern  was  on  his  keen  face.  Lablache 
might  have  been  his  dearest  friend.  Jacky  smiled  over  at 
him.  "  Poker  "  John  looked  pained. 

"  Guess  you're  right,  Bill,"  said  the  rancher.  "  Hot  — 
very  hot.  I  pity  the  poor  devil  if  Lablache  lays  a  hand  on 
him.  Excuse  me,  boy,  I'm  going  down  to  the  barn.  We've 
got  a  couple  of  ponies  we're  breaking  to  harness." 

The  old  man  departed.  The  others  watched  the  burly 
figure  as  he  passed  out  of  the  door.  His  whole  personality 
seemed  shrunken  of  late.  The  old  robustness  seemed  a 
thing  of  the  past  The  last  two  months  seemed  to  have 
put  ten  years  of  ageing  upon  the  kindly  old  man.  Jacky 
sighed  as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  and  there  was  no 
smile  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  again  to  her  lover.  Bill's 
face  had  become  serious. 

"  Well  ?  "  in  a  tone  of  almost  painful  anxiety. 

The  girl  had  started  forward  and  was  leaning  with  her 
two  brown  hands  upon  the  back  of  a  chair.  Her  face  was 
pale  beneath  her  tan,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  excite- 
ment. For  answer,  Bunning-Ford  stepped  to  the  French 
window  and  closed  it,  having  first  glanced  up  and  down  the 
veranda  to  see  that  it  was  empty.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight. 
The  tall  pines,  which  lined  the  approach  to  the  house,  waved 
silently  in  the  light  breeze.  The  clear  sky  was  gloriously 
blue.  On  everything  was  the  peace  of  summer. 

The  man  swung  round  and  came  towards  the  girl.  His 
eagle  face  was  lit  up  by  an  expression  of  triumph.  He  held 
out  his  two  hands,  and  the  girl  placed  her  own  brown  ones 
in  them.  He  drew  her  towards  him  and  embraced  her  in 
silence.  Then  he  moved  a  little  away  from  her.  His 
gleaming  eyes  indexed  the  activity  of  his  mind. 

"  The  cattle  are  safe  —  as  houses.  It  was  a  grand  piece 
of  work,  dear.  They  would  never  have  faced  the  path 
without  your  help.  Say,  girlie,  I'm  an  infant  at  handling 
stock  compared  with  you.  Now  —  what  news?" 


148     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Jacky  was  smiling  tenderly  into  the  strong  face  of  the 
man.  She  could  not  help  but  wonder  at  the  reckless  daring 
of  this  man,  who  so  many  set  down  as  a  lazy  good-for-noth- 
ing. She  knew  —  she  had  always  known,  she  fancied  — 
the  strong  character  which  underlay  that  indolent  exterior. 
It  never  appealed  to  her  to  regret  the  chance  that  had  driven 
him  to  use  his  abilities  in  such  a  cause.  There  was  too 
much  of  the  wild  half-breed  blood  in  her  veins  to  allow  her 
to  stop  to  consider  the  might-have-beens.  She  gloried  in 
his  daring,  and  something  of  the  spirit  which  had  caused 
her  to  help  her  half-brother  now  forced  from  her  an  almost 
worshiping  adoration  for  her  lover. 

"  Horrocks  is  to  spare  no  expense  in  tracking  —  Retief  — 
down."  She  laughed  silently.  "  Lablache  is  to  pay.  They 
are  going  over  the  old  ground  again,  I  guess.  The  tracks 
of  the  cattle.  Horrocks  is  not  to  be  feared.  We  must  watch 
Lablache.  He  will  act.  Horrocks  will  only  be  his  puppet." 

Bill  pondered  before  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  thoughtfully  at  last,  "  that  is  the  best  of 
news.  The  very  best.  Horrocks  can  track.  He  is  one  of 
the  best  at  that  game.  But  I  have  taken  every  precaution. 
Tracking  is  useless  —  waste  of  time." 

"  I  know  that  from  past  experience,  Bill.  Now  that  the 
campaign  has  begun,  what  is  the  next  move?  " 

The  girl  was  all  eagerness.  Her  beautiful  dark  face  was 
no  longer  pale.  It  was  aglow  with  the  enthusiasm  of  her 
feelings.  Her  deep,  meaning  eyes  burned  with  a  consuming 
brilliancy.  Framed  in  its  setting  of  curling,  raven  hair, 
her  face  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of  the  old  masters 
of  the  Van  Dyke  school.  She  was  wondrously  beautiful. 
Bill  gazed  upon  her  features  with  devouring  eyes,  and 
thoughts  of  the  wrongs  committed  by  Lablache  against  her 
and  hers  teemed  through  his  brain  and  set  his  blood  surging 
through  his  veins  in  a  manner  that  threatened  to  overbalance 
his  usual  cool  judgment.  He  forced  himself  to  an  outward 
calmness,  however,  and  the  lazy  tones  of  his  voice  remained 
as  easy  as  ever. 


THE  HUE  AND  CRY  149 

"  On  the  result  of  the  next  move  much  will  depend,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  to  be  a  terrific  coup,  and  will  entail  careful 
planning.  It  is  fortunate  that  the  people  at  the  half-breed 
camp  are  the  friends  of  —  of  —  Retief." 

"  Yes,  and  of  mine,"  put  in  the  girl.  Then  she  added 
slowly,  and  as  though  with  painful  thought,  "  Say,  Bill,  be 
—  be  careful.  I  guess  you  are  all  I  have  in  the  world  —  you 
and  uncle.  Do  you  know,  I've  kind  of  seen  to  the  end  of 
this  racket.  Maybe  there's  trouble  coming.  Who's  to  be 
lagged  I  can't  say.  There  are  shadows  around,  Bill;  the 
place  fairly  hums  with  'em.  Say,  don't  —  don't  give  La- 
blache  a  slant  at  you.  I  can't  spare  you,  Bill." 

The  tall  thin  figure  of  her  companion  stepped  over  to- 
wards her,  and  she  felt  herself  encircled  by  his  long  power- 
ful arms.  Then  he  bent  down  from  his  great  height  and 
kissed  her  passionately  upon  the  lips. 

"  Take  comfort,  little  girl.  This  is  a  war,  if  necessary, 
to  the  death.  Should  anything  happen  to  me,  you  may  be 
sure  that  I  leave  you  freed  from  the  snares  of  old  Shylock. 
Yes,  I  will  be  careful,  Jacky.  We  are -playing  for  a  heavy 
stake.  You  may  trust  me." 


CHAPTER  XV 

AMONG    THE   HALF-BREEDS 

LABLACHE  was  not  a  man  of  variable  moods.  He  was  too 
strong;  his  purpose  in  life  was  too  strong  for  any  vacilla- 
tion of  temper.  His  one  aim  —  his  whole  soul  —  was  wrapt 
in  a  craving  for  money-making  and  the  inevitable  power 
which  the  accumulation  of  great  wealth  must  give  him. 
In  all  his  dealings  he  was  perfectly  —  at  least  outwardly  — 
calm,  and  he  never  allowed  access  to  anger  to  thwart  his 
ends.  An  inexorable  purpose  governed  his  actions  to  an 
extent  which,  while  his  feelings  might  undergo  paroxysms 
of  acute  changes,  never  permitted  him  to  make  a  false  move 
or  to  show  his  hand  prematurely.  But  this  latest  reverse 
had  upset  him  more  than  he  had  ever  been  upset  in  his  life, 
and  all  the  great  latent  force  of  his  character  had  suddenly, 
as  it  were,  been  precipitated  into  a  torrent  of  ungovernable 
fury.  He  had  been  wounded  deeply  in  the  most  vulnerable 
spot  in  his  composition.  Thirty-five  thousands  of  his 
precious  dollars  ruthlessly  torn  from  his  capacious  and  re- 
tentive money-bags.  Truly  it  was  a  cruel  blow,  and  one 
well  calculated  to  disturb  the  even  tenor  of  his  complacency. 
Thought  was  very  busy  within  that  massive  head  as  he 
lumped  heavily  along  from  John  Allandale's  house  in  the 
direction  of  his  own  store.  Some  slight  satisfaction  was 
his  at  the  reflection  of  the  prompt  assistance  he  had  ob- 
tained from  the  police.  It  was  the  satisfaction  of  a  man 
who  lived  by  the  assistance  of  the  law,  of  a  man  who,  in 
his  own  inordinate  arrogance,  considered  that  the  law  was 
made  for  such  as  he,  to  the  detriment  of  those  who  attempt 
to  thwart  the  rich  man's  purpose.  He  knew  Horrocks  to 
be  capable,  and  although  he  did  not  place  too  much  reliance 

150 


AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS  151 

on  that  astute  prairie-man's  judgment  —  he  always  believed 
in  his  own  judgment  first  —  still,  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
have  obtained  better  assistance,  and  was  therefore  as  con- 
tent as  circumstances  would  permit.  That  he  was  sanguine 
of  recovering  his  property  was  doubtful.  Lablache  never 
permitted  himself  the  luxury  of  optimism.  He  set  himself 
a  task  and  worked  steadily  on  to  the  required  end.  So 
he  had  decided  now.  He  did  not  permit  himself  to  dwell 
on  the  desired  result,  or  to  anticipate.  He  would  simply 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  bring  about  the  recovery  of  his 
stolen  property. 

He  moved  ponderously  along  over  the  smooth  dusty  road, 
and  at  last  reached  the  market-place.  The  settlement  was 
drowsily  quiet.  Life  of  a  sort  was  apparent  but  it  was 
chiefly  "  animal."  The  usual  number  of  dogs  were  moving 
about,  or  peacefully  basking  in  the  sun;  a  few  saddle  horses 
were  standing  with  dejected  air,  hitched  to  various  tying- 
posts.  A  buckboard  and  team  was  standing  outside  his  own 
door.  The  sound  of  the  smith's  hammer  falling  upon  the 
anvil  sounded  plaintively  upon  the  calmness  of  the  sleepy 
village.  In  spite  of  the  sensational  raid  of  the  night  before, 
Foss  River  displayed  no  unusual  activity. 

At  length  the  great  man  reached  his  office,  and  threw 
himself,  with  great  danger  to  his  furniture,  into  his  capacious 
wicker  chair.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  business.  Instead 
he  gazed  long  and  thoughtfully  out  of  his  office  window. 
What  somber,  vengeful  thoughts  were  teeming  through  his 
brain  would  be  hard  to  tell,  his  mask-like  face  betrayed 
nothing.  His  sphinx-like  expression  was  a  blank. 

In  this  way  half  an  hour  and  more  passed.  Then  his 
attention  became  fixed  upon  a  tall  figure  sauntering  slowly 
towards  the  settlement  from  the  direction  of  Allandale's 
ranch.  In  a  moment  Lablache  had  stirred  himself,  and 
a  pair  of  field-glasses  were  leveled  at  the  unconscious  pedes- 
trian. A  moment  later  an  exclamation  of  annoyance  broke 
from  the  money-lender. 

"  Curse  the  man!    Am  I  never  to  be  rid  of  this  damned 


152     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Englishman?"  He  stood  now  gazing  malevolently  at  the 
tall  figure  of  the  Hon.  Bunning-Ford,  who  was  leisurely 
making  his  way  towards  the  village.  For  the  time  being 
the  channel  of  Lablache's  thoughts  had  changed  its  direction. 
He  had  hoped,  in  foreclosing  his  mortgages  on  the  English- 
man's property,  to  have  rid  Foss  River  of  the  latter's,  to  him, 
hateful  presence.  But  since  misfortune  had  come  upon 
"  Lord "  Bill,  the  Allandales  and  he  had  become  closer 
friends  than  ever.  This  effort  had  been  one  of  the  money- 
lender's few  failures,  and  failure  galled  him  with  a  bitter- 
ness the  recollection  of  which  no  success  could  eliminate. 
The  result  was  a  greater  hatred  for  the  object  of  his  venge- 
ance, and  a  lasting  determination  to  rid  Foss  River  of  the 
Englishman  forever.  And  so  he  remained  standing  and 
watching  until,  at  length,  the  entrance  of  one  of  his  clerks, 
to  announce  that  the  saloon  dinner-time  was  at  hand,  brought 
him  out  of  his  cruel  reverie,  and  he  set  off  in  quest  of  the 
needs  of  his  inner  man,  a  duty  which  nothing,  of  whatever 
importance,  was  allowed  to  interfere  with. 

In  the  meantime,  Horrocks,  or,  as  he  was  better  known 
amongst  his  comrades,  "  the  Ferret,"  was  hot  upon  the  trail 
of  the  lost  cattle.  Horrocks  bristled  with  energy  at  every 
point,  and  his  men,  working  with  him,  had  reason  to  be 
aware  of  the  fact.  It  was  an  old  saying  amongst  them  that 
when  "  the  Ferret  "  was  let  loose  there  was  no  chance  of  bits 
rusting.  In  other  words,  his  mileage  report  to  his  chiefs 
would  be  a  long  one. 

As  the  sergeant  anticipated,  it  was  child's  play  to  track 
the  stolen  herd.  The  tracks  left  by  the  fast-driven  cattle 
was  apparent  to  the  veriest  greenhorn,  and  Horrocks  and 
his  men  were  anything  but  greenhorns. 

Long  before  evening  closed  in  they  had  followed  the  foot- 
prints right  down  to  the  edge  of  the  great  muskeg,  and 
already  Horrocks  anticipated  a  smart  capture.  But  his  task 
seemed  easier  than  it  really  was.  On  the  brink  of  the  keg 
the  tracks  became  confused.  With  some  difficulty  the  sleuth 
instincts  of  these  accomplished  trackers  led  them  to  follow 


AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS  153 

the  marks  for  a  mile  and  a  half  along  the  edge  of  the  mire, 
then,  it  seemed,  the  herd  had  been  turned  and  driven  with 
great  speed  back  on  their  tracks.  But  worse  confusion  be- 
came apparent,  and  "  the  Ferret  "  soon  realized  that  the  herd 
had  been  driven  up  and  down  along  the  border  of  the  great 
keg  with  a  view  to  evading  further  pursuit.  So  frequently 
had  this  been  done  that  it  was  impossible  to  further  trace 
the  stock,  and  the  sun  was  already  sinking  when  Horrocks 
dismounted,  and  with  him  his  men  were  at  last  forced  to 
acknowledge  defeat. 

He  had  come  to  a  standstill  with  a  stretch  of  a  mile  and 
a  half  of  cattle  tracks  before  him.  There  was  no  sign 
further  than  this  of  where  the  beasts  had  been  driven.  The 
keg  itself  gave  no  clew.  It  was  as  green  and  trackless  as 
ever,  and  again  on  the  land  side  there  was  not  a  single  foot- 
print beyond  the  confused  marks  along  the  quagmire's  dan- 
gerous border. 

The  work  of  covering  retreat  had  been  carried  out  by  a 
master  hand,  and  Horrocks  was  not  slow  to  acknowledge 
the  cleverness  of  the  raider.  With  all  one  good  prairie 
man's  appreciation  for  another  he  detected  a  foeman  worthy 
of  his  steel,  and  he  warmed  to  the  problem  set  out  before 
him.  The  troopers  waited  for  their  superior's  instructions. 
As  "  the  Ferret "  did  not  speak  one  of  the  men  commented 
aloud. 

"  Smart  work,  sergeant,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I'm  not 
surprised  that  this  fellow  rode  roughshod  over  the  district 
for  so  long  and  escaped  all  who  were  sent  to  nab  him. 
He's  clever,  is  P.  Retief,  Esq." 

Horrocks  was  looking  out  across  the  great  keg.  Strangely 
enough  they  had  halted  within  twenty  yards  of  the  willow 
bush,  at  which  point  the  secret  path  across  the  mire  began. 
The  man  with  the  gold  chevrons  upon  his  arm  ignored  the 
remark  of  his  companion,  but  answered  with  words  which 
occurred  in  his  own  train  of  thought. 

"  It's  plain  enough,  I  guess.  Yonder  is  the  direction 
taken  by  the  cattle,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  towards  the 


154      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

distant  peaks  of  the  mountains  beyond.  "  But  who's  got 
the  nerve  to  follow  'em?  Say,"  he  went  on  sharply,  "  some- 
where along  this  bank,  I  mean  in  the  mile  and  a  half  of 
hoof  marks,  there's  a  path  turns  out,  or,  at  least,  firm  ground 
by  which  it  is  possible  to  cross  this  devil's  keg.  It  must  be 
so.  Cattle  can't  be  spirited  away.  Unless,  of  course  — 
but  no,  a  man  don't  duff  cattle  to  drown  'em  in  a  swamp. 
They've  crossed  this  pernicious  mire,  boys.  We  may  nab 
our  friend,  Retief,  but  we'll  never  clap  eyes  on  those 
beasts." 

"  It's  the  same  old  business  over  again,  sergeant,"  said 
one  of  the  troopers.  "  I  was  on  this  job  before,  and  I 
reckon  we  landed  hereabouts  every  time  we  lit  on  Retief's 
trail.  But  we  never  got  no  further.  Yonder  keg  is  a  mighty 
hard  nut  to  crack.  I  guess  the  half-breed's  got  the  bulge 
on  us.  If  path  across  the  mire  there  is  he  knows  it  and 
we  don't,  and,  as  you  say,  who's  goin'  to  follow  him  ?  " 
Having  delivered  himself  of  these  sage  remarks  he  stepped 
to  the  brink  of  the  mire  and  put  his  foot  heavily  upon  its 
surface.  His  top-boot  sank  quickly  through  the  yielding 
crust,  and  the  black  subsoil  rose  with  oily,  sucking  action, 
and  his  foot  was  immediately  buried  out  of  sight.  He  drew 
it  out  sharply,  a  shudder  of  horror  quickening  his  action. 
Strong  man  and  hardy  as  he  was,  the  muskeg  inspired  him 
with  a  superstitious  terror.  "  Guess  there  ain't  no  follow- 
ing them  beasties  through  that,  sergeant  Leastways,  not 
for  me." 

Horrocks  had  watched  his  subordinate's  action  thought- 
fully. He  knew,  without  showing,  that  no  man  or  beast 
could  attempt  to  cross  the  mire  with  any  hope  of  success 
without  the  knowledge  of  some  secret  path.  That  such  a 
path,  or  paths,  existed  he  believed,  for  many  were  the  stories 
of  how  criminals  in  past  days  escaped  prairie  law  by  such 
means.  However,  he  had  no  knowledge  of  any  such  paths 
himself,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  sacrificing  his  life  use- 
lessly in  an  attempt  to  discover  the  keg's  most  jealously 
guarded  secret. 


AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS  155 

He  turned  back  to  his  horse  and  prepared  to  vault  into 
the  saddle. 

"  It's  no  use,  boys.  We  are  done  for  to-day.  You  can 
ride  back  to  the  settlement.  I  have  another  little  matter 
on  hand.  If  any  of  you  see  Lablache  just  tell  him  I  shall 
join  him  in  about  two  hours'  time." 

Horrocks  rode  off  and  his  four  troopers  headed  towards 
the  Foss  River. 

Despite  the  fact  that  his  horse  had  been  under  the  saddle 
for  nearly  eight  hours  Horrocks  rode  at  a  great  pace.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  are  always  to  be  found  on  the 
prairie  —  thorough  horsemen.  Men  who,  in  times  of  leisure, 
care  more  for  their  horses  than  they  do  for  themselves;  men 
who  regard  their  horses  as  they  would  a  comrade,  but  who, 
when  it  becomes  a  necessity  to  work  or  travel,  demand 
every  effort  the  animal  can  make  by  way  of  return  for  the 
care  which  has  been  lavished  upon  it.  Such  men  generally 
find  themselves  well  repaid.  A  horse  is  something  more 
than  a  creature  with  four  legs,  one  at  each  corner,  head  out 
of  one  end,  tail  out  of  the  other.  There  is  an  old  saying  in 
the  West  to  the  effect  that  a  thorough  horseman  is  worthy 
of  man's  esteem.  The  opinion  amongst  prairie  men  is  that 
a  man  who  loves  his  horse  can  never  be  wholly  bad.  And 
possibly  we  can  accept  this  decision  upon  the  subject  with- 
out question,  for  their  experience  in  men,  especially  in  "  bad 
men,"  is  wide  and  varied. 

Horrocks  avoided  the  settlement,  leaving  it  well  to  the 
west,  and  turned  his  willing  beast  in  the  direction  of  the 
half-breed  camp.  There  was  an  ex-Government  scout  living 
in  this  camp  whom  he  knew;  a  man  who  was  willing  to  sell 
to  his  late  employers  any  information  he  chanced  to  possess. 
It  was  the  officer's  intention  to  see  this  man  and  purchase  all 
he  had  to  sell,  if  it  happened  to  be  worth  buying.  Hence 
his  visit  to  the  camp. 

The  evening  shadows  were  fast  lengthening  when  he 
espied  in  the  distance  the  squalid  shacks  and  dilapidated 
teepees  of  the  Breeds.  There  was  a  large  colony  of  those 


156     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

wanderers  of  the  West  gathered  together  in  the  Foss  River 
camp.  We  have  said  that  these  places  are  hot-beds  of 
crime,  a  curse  to  the  country;  but  that  description  scarcely 
conveys  the  wretched  poverty  and  filthiness  of  these  motley 
gatherings.  From  a  slight  rising  ground  Horrocks  looked 
down  on  what  might  have,  at  first  sight,  been  taken  for  a 
small  village.  A  scattering  of  small  tumbled-down  shacks, 
about  fifty  in  number,  set  out  on  the  fresh  green  of  the 
prairie,  created  the  first  blot  of  uncleanly,  uncouth  habita- 
tion upon  the  view.  Add  to  these  a  proportionate  number 
of  ragged  tents  and  teepees,  a  crowd  of  unwashed,  and,  for 
the  most  part,  undressed  children,  a  hundred  fierce  and  half- 
starved  dogs  of  the  "  husky  "  type.  Imagine  a  stench  of 
dung  fire  cooking,  and  the  gathering  of  millions  of  mos- 
quitoes about  a  few  choyeuses  and  fat  cattle  grazing  near 
by,  and  the  picture  as  it  first  presents  itself  is  complete. 

The  approach  to  such  a  place  makes  one  almost  wish  the 
undulating  prairie  was  not  quite  so  fair  a  picture,  for  the 
contrast  with  man's  filthy  squalor  is  so  great  that  the  feel- 
ing of  nauseation  which  results  is  almost  overpowering. 
Horrocks,  however,  was  used  to  such  scenes.  His  duty  often 
took  him  into  worse  Breed  camps  than  this.  He  treated 
such  places  to  a  perfectly  callous  indifference,  and  regarded 
them  merely  as  necessary  evils. 

At  the  first  shack  he  drew  up  and  instantly  became  the 
center  of  attention  from  a  pack  of  yelping  dogs  and  a  num- 
ber of  half-fearful,  wide-eyed  ragamuffins,  grimy  children 
nearly  naked  and  ranging  in  age  from  two  years  up  to  twelve. 
Young  as  the  latter  were  they  were  an  evil-looking  collection. 
The  noisy  greeting  of  the  camp  dogs  had  aroused  the  elders 
from  their  indolent  repose  within  the  shacks,  and  Horrocks 
quickly  became  aware  of  a  furtive  spying  within  the  dark- 
ened doorways  and  paneless  windows. 

The  reception  was  nothing  unusual  to  the  officer.  The 
Breeds  he  knew  always  fought  shy  of  the  police.  As  a 
rule,  such  a  visit  as  the  present  portended  an  arrest,  and 
they  were  never  quite  sure  who  the  victim  was  to  be  and 


AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS  157 

the  possible  consequences.  Crime  was  so  common  amongst 
these  people  that  in  nearly  every  family  it  was  possible  to 
find  one  or  more  law-breakers  and,  more  often  than  not,  the 
delinquent  was  liable  to  capital  punishment. 

Ignoring  his  cool  reception,  Horrocks  hitched  his  horse 
to  a  tree  and  stepped  up  to  the  shack,  regardless  of  the 
vicious  snapping  of  the  dogs.  The  children  fled  precipi- 
tately at  his  approach.  At  the  door  of  the  house  he  halted. 

"Hallo  there,  within!  "  he  called. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  he  heard  a  whispered 
debate  going  on  in  the  shadowy  interior. 

"Hey!"  he  called  again.  "Get  a  hustle  on,  some  of 
you.  Get  out,"  he  snapped  sharply,  as  a  great  husky,  with 
bristling  hair,  came  snuffing  at  his  legs.  He  aimed  a  kick 
at  the  dog,  which,  in  response,  sullenly  retreated  to  a  safe 
distance. 

The  angry  tone  of  his  second  summons  had  its  effect, 
and  a  figure  moved  cautiously  within  and  finally  approached 
the  door. 

"Eh!  what  is  it?"  asked  a  deep,  guttural  voice,  and  a 
bulky  form  framed  itself  in  the  opening. 

The  police-officer  eyed  the  man  keenly.  The  twilight 
had  so  far  deepened  that  there  was  barely  sufficient  light 
to  distinguish  the  man's  features,  but  Horrocks's  survey  sat- 
isfied him  as  to  the  fellow's  identity.  He  was  a  repulsive 
specimen  of  the  Breed;  the  dark,  lowering  face  had  some- 
thing utterly  cruel  in  its  expression.  The  cast  was  brutal 
in  the  extreme;  sensual,  criminal.  The  shifty  black  eyes 
looked  anywhere  but  into  the  policeman's  face. 

"That  you,  Gustave?  "  said  Horrocks,  pleasantly  enough. 
He  wished  to  inspire  confidence.  "  I'm  looking  for  Gautier. 
I've  got  a  nice  little  job  for  him.  Do  you  know  where  he 
is?" 

"  Ugh !  "  grunted  Gustave,  heavily,  but  with  a  decided  air 
of  relief.  He  entertained  a  wholesome  dread  of  Sergeant 
Horrocks.  Now  he  became  more  communicative.  Hor- 
rocks had  not  come  to  arrest  anybody.  "  I  see,"  he  went 


158      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

on,  gazing  out  across  the  prairie,  "  this  is  not  a  warrant  busi- 
ness, eh?  Guess  Gautier  is  back  there,"  with  a  jerk  of  a 
thumb  in  a  vague  direction  behind  him.  "He's  in  his 
shack.  Gautier's  just  hooked  up  with  another  squaw." 

"Another?"  Horrocks  whistled  softly.  "Why,  that's 
the  sixth  to  my  knowledge.  He's  very  much  a  marrying 
man.  How  much  did  he  pay  the  neche  this  time?  " 

"  Two  steers  and  a  sheep,"  said  the  man,  with  an  oily  grin. 

"Ah!  I  wonder  how  he  acquired  'em.  Well,  I'll  go 
and  find  him.  Gautier  is  smart,  but  he'll  land  himself  in 
the  penitentiary  if  he  goes  on  marrying  squaws  at  that  price. 
Say,  which  is  his  shack  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Back  thar.  You'll  see  it.  He's  just  limed  the  outside 
of  it.  Guess  white's  the  color  his  new  squaw  fancies  most. 
S'long." 

The  man  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  his  visitor.  In  spite  of 
the  sergeant's  assurance,  Gustave  never  felt  comfortable  in 
the  officer's  presence.  Horrocks  moved  off  in  search  of  the 
white  hut,  while  the  Breed,  with  furtive  eyes,  watched  his 
progress. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  locating  the  shack  in  that 
colony  of  grime.  Even  in  the  darkness  the  gleaming  white 
of  the  ex-spy's  abode  stood  out  prominently.  The  dogs  and 
children  now  tacitly  acknowledged  the  right  of  the  police- 
officer's  presence  in  their  camp,  and  allowed  him  to  move 
about  apparently  unnoticed.  He  wound  his  way  amongst 
the  huts  and  tents,  ever  watchful  and  alert,  always  aiming 
for  Gautier's  hut.  He  knew  that  in  this  place  at  night  his 
life  was  not  worth  much.  A  quick  aim,  and  a  shot  from 
behind,  and  no  one  would  ever  know  who  had  dropped 
him.  But  the  Canadian  police  are  accustomed  to  take  des- 
perate chances  in  their  work,  and  think  less  of  it  than  do 
our  police  patrols  in  the  slums  of  London. 

He  found  Gautier  sitting  at  his  hut  door  waiting  for  him. 
Another  might  have  been  surprised  at  the  Breed's  cognizance 
of  the  police-officer's  intentions,  but  Horrocks  knew  the 
habits  of  these  people,  and  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that 


AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS  159 

while  he  had  been  talking  to  Gustave  a  messenger  was  dis- 
patched to  warn  Gautier  that  he  was  sought. 

"Well,  sergeant,  what's  your  best  news?"  Gautier  asked 
civilly.  He  was  a  bright,  intelligent-looking,  dusky  man, 
of  perhaps  forty  years.  His  face  was  less  brutal  than  that 
of  the  other  Breed,  but  it  was  none  the  less  cunning.  He 
was  short  and  massively  built. 

"  That's  just  what  I've  come  to  ask  you,  Gautier.  I  think 
you  can  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know  —  if  you've  a  notion  to. 
Say,"  with  a  keen  look  round,  "  can  we  talk  here?  " 

There  was  not  a  soul  visible  but  an  occasional  playing 
child.  It  was  curious  how  quiet  the  camp  became.  Horrocks 
was  not  deceived,  however.  He  knew  that  a  hundred  pairs  of 
eyes  were  watching  him  from  the  reeking  recesses  of  the  huts. 

"No  talk  here."  Gautier  was  serious,  and  his  words 
conveyed  a  lot.  "  It's  bad  medicine  your  coming  to-night. 
But  there,"  with  a  return  to  his  cunning  look,  "  I  don't  know 
that  I've  got  anything  to  tell." 

Horrocks  laughed  softly. 

"Yes  — yes,  I  know.  You  needn't  be  afraid."  Then 
lowering  his  voice:  "  I've  got  a  roll  of  bills  in  my  pocket." 

"  Ah,  then  don't  stay  here  talking.  There's  lots  to  tell, 
but  they'd  kill  me  if  they  suspected.  Where  can  I  see  you 
—  quiet-like  ?  They  won't  lose  sight  of  me  if  they  can  help 
it,  but  I  reckon  I'm  good  for  the  best  of  'em." 

The  man's  attempt  to  look  sincere  was  almost  ludicrous. 
His  cunning  eyes  twinkled  with  cupidity.  Horrocks  kept 
his  voice  down. 

"  Right.  I  shall  be  at  Lablache's  store  in  an  hour's  time. 
You  must  see  me  to-night."  Then  aloud,  for  the  benefit  of 
listening  ears,  "  You  be  careful  what  you  are  doing.  This 
promiscuous  buying  of  wives,  with  cattle  which  you  may 
have  difficulty  in  accounting  for  your  possession  of,  will  lead 
you  into  trouble.  Mind,  I've  warned  you.  Just  look  to  it." 

His  last  sentences  were  called  out  as  he  moved  away,  and 
Gautier  quite  understood. 

Horrocks  did  not  return  the  way  he  had  come,  but  took 


160     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

a  circuitous  route  through  the  camp.  He  was  a  man  who 
never  lost  a  chance  in  his  work,  and  now,  while  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  that  criminal  haunt,  he  thought  it  as  well  to 
take  a  look  round.  He  hardly  knew  what  he  expected  to 
find  out  —  if  anything.  But  he  required  information  of 
Retief,  and  he  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that  all  that  in- 
dividual's movement,  would  be  known  here.  He  trusted  to 
luck  to  help  him  to  discover  something. 

The  smartest  of  men  have  to  work  against  overwhelming 
odds  in  the  detection  of  crime.  Many  and  devious  are  the 
ways  of  men  whose  hand  is  against  the  law.  Surely  is  the 
best  detective  a  mere  babe  in  the  hands  of  a  clever  criminal. 
In  this  instance  the  very  thing  that  Horrocks  was  in  search 
of  was  about  to  be  forced  upon  him.  For  underlying  that 
information  was  a  deep-laid  scheme. 

Never  can  reliance  be  placed  in  a  true  half-breed.  The 
heathen  Chinee  is  the  ideal  of  truth  and  honesty  when  his 
wiles  are  compared  with  the  dark  ways  of  the  Breed.  Hor- 
rocks, with  all  his  experience,  was  no  match  for  the  dusky- 
visaged  outcast  of  the  plains.  Gautier  had  been  deputied 
to  convey  certain  information  to  Lablache  by  the  patriarchs 
of  the  camp.  And  with  his  native  cunning  he  had  decided, 
on  the  appearance  of  Sergeant  Horrocks,  to  extort  a  price 
for  that  which  it  was  his  duty  to  tell.  Besides  this,  as 
matters  had  turned  out,  Horrocks  was  to  receive  gratis  that 
for  which  he  would  shortly  pay  Gautier. 

He  had  made  an  almost  complete  circuit  of  the  camp. 
Accustomed  as  he  was  to  such  places,  the  stench  of  it  almost 
made  him  sick.  He  came  to  a  stand  close  beside  one  of 
the  outlying  teepees.  He  was  just  preparing  to  fill  his  pipe 
and  indulge  in  a  sort  of  disinfecting  smoke  when  he  became 
aware  of  voices  talking  loudly  close  by.  The  sound  pro- 
ceeded from  the  teepees.  From  force  of  habit  he  listened. 
The  tones  were  gruff,  and  almost  Indian-like  in  the  brevity 
of  expression.  The  language  was  the  bastard  jargon  of  the 
French  half-breed.  For  a  moment  he  was  doubtful.  Then 
his  attention  became  riveted. 


AMONG  THE  HALF-BREEDS  161 

"  Yes,"  said  one  voice,  "  he  is  a  good  man,  is  Peter. 
When  he  has  plenty  he  spends  it.  He  does  not  rob  the 
poor  Breed.  Only  the  gross  white  man.  Peter  is  clever. 
Very." 

Then  another  voice,  deep-toned  and  full,  took  up  the 
eulogy. 

"  Peter  knows  how  to  spend  his  money.  He  spends  it 
among  his  friends.  It  is  good.  How  much  whisky  will 
he  buy,  think  you  ?  " 

Another  voice  chipped  in  at  this  point,  and  Horrocks 
strained  his  ears  to  catch  the  words,  for  the  voice  was  the 
voice  of  a  female  and  her  utterance  was  indistinct. 

"  He  said  he  would  pay  for  everything  —  all  we  could 
eat  and  drink  —  and  that  the  pusky  should  be  held  the 
night  after  to-morrow.  He  will  come  himself  and  dance  the 
Red  River  jig.  Peter  is  a  great  dancer  and  will  dance  all 
others  down." 

Then  the  first  speaker  laughed. 

"  Peter  must  have  a  long  stocking  if  he  would  pay  for 
all.  A  barrel  of  rye  would  not  go  far,  and  as  for  food,  he 
must  bring  several  of  the  steers  which  he  took  from  old 
Lablache  if  he  would  feed  us.  But  Peter  is  always  as  good 
as  his  word.  He  said  he  would  pay.  And  he  will  pay. 
When  does  he  come  to  prepare  ?  " 

"He  does  not  come.  He  has  left  the  money  with  Bap- 
tiste,  who  will  see  to  everything.  Peter  will  not  give  '  the 
Ferret '  a  chance." 

"  But  how  ?  The  dance  will  be  a  danger  to  him,"  said 
the  woman's  voice.  "  What  if  *  the  Ferret '  hears?  " 

"He  will  not  hear,  and,  besides,  Peter  will  be  prepared 
if  the  damned  police  come.  Have  no  fear  for  Peter.  He 
is  bold." 

The  voices  ceased  and  Horrocks  waited  a  little  longer. 
But  presently,  when  the  voices  again  became  audible,  the 
subject  of  conversation  had  changed,  and  he  realized  that 
he  was  not  likely  to  hear  more  that  would  help  him.  So, 
with  great  caution,  he  stole  quickly  away  to  where  his  horse 


162      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

was  tied.  He  mounted  hastily  and  rode  off,  glad  to  be  away 
from  that  reeking  camp,  and  greatly  elated  with  the  success 
of  the  visit 

He  had  learned  a  lot.  And  he  was  to  hear  more  yet 
from  Gautier.  He  felt  that  the  renowned  "  hustler "  was 
already  in  his  clutches.  His  spurs  went  sharply  into  his 
broncho's  flanks  and  he  raced  over  the  prairie  towards  the 
settlement.  Possibly  he  should  have  known  better  than  to 
trust  to  the  overhearing  of  that  conversation.  His  knowl- 
edge of  the  Breeds  should  have  warned  him  to  put  little 
faith  in  what  he  had  heard.  But  he  was  eager.  His  repu- 
tation was  largely  at  stake  over  this  affair,  and  that  must  be 
the  excuse  for  the  rashness  of  his  faith.  However,  the 
penalty  of  his  folly  was  to  be  his,  therefore  blame  can  well 
be  spared. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GAUTIER    CAUSES   DISSENSION 

"  SIT  down  and  let  me  hear  the  —  worst." 

Lablache's  voice  rasped  harshly  as  he  delivered  his  man- 
date. Horrocks  had  just  arrived  at  the  money-lender's 
store  after  his  visit  to  the  half-breed  camp.  The  police- 
officer  looked  weary.  And  the  dejected  expression  on  his 
face  had  drawn  from  his  companion  the  hesitating 
superlative. 

"Have  you  got  anything  to  eat?"  Horrocks  retorted 
quickly,  ignoring  the  other's  commands.  "  I  am  famished. 
Had  nothing  since  I  set  out  from  Stormy  Cloud.  I  can't 
talk  on  an  empty  stomach." 

Lablache  struck  a  table  bell  sharply,  and  one  of  his  clerks, 
all  of  whom  were  still  working  in  the  store,  entered.  The 
money-lender's  clerks  always  worked  early  and  late.  It  was 
part  of  the  great  man's  creed  to  sweat  his  employees. 

"  Just  go  over  to  the  saloon,  Markham,  and  tell  them  to 
send  supper  for  one  —  something  substantial,"  he  called  out 
after  the  man,  who  hastened  to  obey  with  the  customary 
precipitance  of  all  who  served  the  flinty  financier. 

The  man  disappeared  in  a  twinkling  and  Lablache  turned 
to  his  visitor  again. 

"  They'll  send  it  over  at  once.  There's  some  whisky  in 
that  bottle,"  pointing  to  a  small  cabinet,  through  the  glass 
door  of  which  gleamed  the  white  label  of  "  special 
Glenlivet."  "  Help  yourself.  It'll  buck  you  up." 

Horrocks  obeyed  with  alacrity,  and  the  genial  spirit  con- 
siderably refreshed  him.  He  then  reseated  himself  opposite 
to  his  host,  who  had  faced  round  from  his  desk. 

163 


164      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"My  news  is  not  the  —  worst,  as  you  seem  to  anticipate; 
although,  perhaps,  it  might  have  been  better,"  the  officer 
began.  "  In  fact,  I  am  fairly  well  pleased  with  the  result  of 
my  day's  work." 

"Which  means,  I  take  it,  that  you  have  discovered  a 
clew." 

Lablache's  heavy  eyes  gleamed. 

"  Rather  more  than  a  clew,"  Horrocks  went  on  reflectively. 
"  My  information  relates  more  to  the  man  than  to  the  beasts. 
We  shall,  I  think,  lay  our  hands  on  this  —  Retief." 

"  Good  —  good,"  murmured  the  money-lender,  inclining 
his  heavy  jowled  head.  "  Find  the  man  and  we  shall  re- 
cover the  cattle." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  put  in  the  other.  "  How- 
ever, we  shall  see." 

Lablache  looked  slightly  disappointed.  The  capture  of 
Retief  seemed  to  him  synonymous  with  the  recovery  of  his 
stock.  However,  he  waited  for  his  visitor  to  proceed.  The 
money-lender  was  essentially  a  man  to  draw  his  own  con- 
clusions after  hearing  the  facts,  and  no  opinion  of  another 
was  likely  to  influence  him  when  once  those  conclusions 
were  arrived  at.  Lablache  was  a  strong  man  mentally  and 
physically.  And  few  cared  to  combat  his  decisions  or 
opinions. 

For  a  moment  further  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  entry 
of  a  man  with  Horrocks's  supper.  When  the  fellow  had 
withdrawn  the  police-officer  began  his  repast  and  the  nar- 
ration of  his  story  at  the  same  time.  Lablache  watched  and 
listened  with  an  undisturbed  concentration.  He  lost  no 
point,  however  small,  in  the  facts  as  stated  by  the  officer. 
He  refrained  from  interruption,  excepting  where  the  signifi- 
cance of  certain  points  in  the  story  escaped  him,  and,  at 
the  conclusion,  he  was  as  conversant  with  the  situation  as 
though  he  had  been  present  at  the  investigation.  The  great 
man  was  profoundly  impressed  with  what  he  heard.  Not 
so  much  with  the  shrewdness  of  the  officer  as  with  the  simple 
significance  of  the  loss  of  further  trace  of  the  cattle  at  the 


GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION  165 

edge  of  the  muskeg.  Up  to  this  point  of  the  story  he  felt 
assured  that  Horrocks  was  to  be  perfectly  relied  upon,  but, 
for  the  rest,  he  was  not  so  sure.  He  felt  that  though  this 
man  was  the  finest  tracker  in  the  country  the  delicate  science 
of  deduction  was  not  necessarily  an  accompaniment  to  his 
prairie  abilities.  Therefore,  for  the  moment,  he  concen- 
trated his  thoughts  upon  the  features  surrounding  the  great 
keg. 

"  It  is  a  curious  thing,"  he  said  retrospectively,  as  the 
policeman  ceased  speaking,  "that  in  all  previous  raids  of 
this  Retief  we  have  invariably  tracked  the  lost  stock  down 
to  this  point.  Of  course,  as  you  say,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  the  beasts  have  been  herded  over  the  keg. 
Everything  seems  to  me  to  hinge  on  the  discovery  of  that 
path.  That  is  the  problem  which  confronts  us  chiefly. 
How  are  we  to  find  the  secret  of  the  crossing?  " 

"  It  cannot  be  done,"  said  Horrocks,  simply  but  with 
decision. 

"  Nonsense,"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  a  heavy  gasp  of 
breath.  "  Retief  knows  it,  and  the  others  with  him.  Those 
cattle  could  not  have  been  herded  over  single-handed.  Now 
to  me  it  seems  plain  that  the  crossing  is  a  very  open  secret 
amongst  the  Breeds." 

"  And  I  presume  you  consider  that  we  should  work  chiefly 
on  that  hypothesis?" 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  you  do  not  consider  the  possible  capture  of  Retief 
as  being  the  most  important  feature  of  the  case  ?  " 

"  Important  —  certainly.  But,  for  the  moment,  of  minor 
consideration.  Once  we  discover  the  means  by  which  he 
secretes  his  stock  —  and  the  hiding-place  —  we  can  stop  his 
depredations  and  turn  all  our  energies  to  his  capture.  You 
follow  me?  At  first  I  was  inclined  to  think  with  you  that 
the  capture  of  the  man  would  be  the  best  thing.  But  now 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  easiest  method  of  procedure  will  be 
the  discovery  of  that  path." 

The  rasping  tone  in  which  Lablache  spoke  conveyed  to 


166      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  other  his  unalterable  conviction.  The  prairie  man,  how- 
ever, remained  unconvinced. 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  after  a  moment's  deliberation,  "  I 
cannot  say  I  agree  with  you.  Open  secret  or  not,  I've  a 
notion  that  we'd  stand  a  better  chance  of  discovering  the 
profoundest  of  state  secrets  than  elicit  information,  even 
supposing  them  to  possess  it,  of  this  description  from  the 
Breeds.  I  expect  Gautier  here  in  a  few  minutes;  we  shall 
hear  what  he  has  to  say." 

"  I  trust  he  may  have  something  to  say." 

Lablache  snapped  his  reply  out  in  that  peculiar  tone  of 
his  which  spoke  volumes.  It  never  failed  to  anger  him  to 
have  his  opinions  gainsaid.  Then  his  manner  changed 
slightly,  and  his  mood  seemed  to  become  contemplative. 
Horrocks  observed  the  change  and  wondered  what  was 
coming.  The  money-lender  cleared  his  throat  and  spat  into 
the  stove.  Then  he  spoke  with  that  slow  deliberation  which 
was  his  when  thinking  deeply. 

"  Two  years  ago,  when  Retief  did  what  he  liked  in  this 
part  of  the  country,  there  were  many  stories  going  about 
as  to  his  relationship  with  a  certain  lady  in  this  settlement." 

"Miss  Allandale  —  yes,  I  have  heard." 

"Just  so;  some  said  that  she  —  er  —  was  very  partial  to 
him.  Some,  that  they  were  distantly  connected.  All  were 
of  opinion  that  she  knew  a  great  deal  of  the  man  if  she  only 
chose  to  tell.  These  stories  were  gossip  —  merely.  These 
small  places  are  given  to  gossip.  But  I  must  confess  to  a 
belief  that  gossip  is  often  —  always,  in  fact  —  founded  on  a 
certain  amount  of  fact." 

There  was  no  niceness  of  feeling  about  this  mountain  of 
obesity  in  matters  of  business.  He  spoke  as  callously  of 
the  girl,  for  whom  he  entertained  his  unholy  passion,  as  he 
would  speak  of  a  stranger.  He  experienced  no  compunc- 
tion in  linking  her  name  with  that  of  an  outlaw.  His  gross 
nature  was  of  too  low  an  order  to  hold  anything  sacred 
where  his  money-bags  were  affected. 

"Perhaps  you  —  er  —  do  not  know,"  he  pursued,  care- 


GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION  167 

fully  lighting  his  pipe  and  pressing  the  charred  tobacco  down 
with  the  tip  of  his  little  finger,  "  that  this  girl  is  the  daughter 
of  a  Breed  mother?  " 

"  Guess  I  hadn't  a  notion." 

Horrocks's  keen  eyes  flashed  with  interest.  He  too  lit  his 
pipe  as  he  lounged  back  in  his  chair. 

"  She  is  a  quarter-breed,  and,  moreover,  the  esteem  in 
which  she  is  held  by  the  skulking  inhabitants  of  the  camp 
inclines  me  to  the  belief  that  —  er  —  judicious  —  er  — 
handling  — " 

"  You  mean  that  through  her  we  might  obtain  the  infor- 
mation we  require  ?  " 

Horrocks  punctuated  the  other's  deliberate  utterances  with 
hasty  eagerness.  Lablache  permitted  a  vague  smile  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  his  eyes  remained  gleaming  coldly. 

"  You  anticipate  me.  The  matter  would  need  delicate 
handling.  What  Miss  Allandale  has  done  in  the  past  will 
not  be  easy  to  find  out.  Granting,  of  course,  that  gossip 
has  not  wronged  her,"  he  went  on  doubtfully.  "  On  second 
thoughts,  perhaps  you  had  better  leave  that  source  of  infor- 
mation to  me." 

He  relapsed  apparently  into  deep  thought.  His  pensive 
deliberation  was  full  of  guile.  He  had  a  purpose  to  achieve 
which  necessitated  the  suggestion  which  he  had  made  to 
this  representative  of  the  law.  He  wished  to  impress  upon 
his  companion  a  certain  connivance  on  the  part  of,  at  least, 
one  member  of  the  house  of  Allandale  with  the  doings  of 
the  raider.  He  merely  wished  to  establish  a  suspicion  in 
the  mind  of  the  officer.  Time  and  necessity  might  develop 
it,  if  it  suited  Lablache's  schemes  that  such  should  occur. 
In  the  meantime  he  knew  he  could  direct  this  man's  actions 
as  he  chose. 

The  calm  superiority  of  the  money-lender  was  not  lost 
upon  his  companion.  Horrocks  was  nettled,  and  showed 
it. 

"  But  you'll  pardon  me,  Mr.  Lablache.  You  have  offered 
me  a  source  of  information  which,  as  a  police-officer,  it  is 


168      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

my  duty  to  sound.  As  you  yourself  admit,  the  old  stories  of 
a  secret  love  affair  may  have  some  foundation  in  fact. 
Accept  that  and  what  possibilities  are  not  opened  up?  Had 
I  been  employed  on  the  affairs  of  Retief,  during  his  previous 
raids,  I  should  certainly  have  worked  upon  so  important  a 
clew." 

"  Tut,  tut,  man,"  retorted  the  other,  sharply.  "  I  under- 
stood you  to  be  a  keen  man  at  your  business.  A  single  ill- 
timed  move  in  the  direction  we  are  discussing  and  the  fat 
will  be  in  the  fire.  The  girl  is  as  smart  as  paint;  at  the 
first  inkling  of  your  purpose  she'll  curl  up  —  shut  up  like  a 
rat  trap.  The  Breeds  will  be  warned  and  we  shall  be  further 
off  success  than  ever.  No,  no,  when  it  comes  to  handling 
Jacky  Allandale  you  leave  it  to  me  —  Ah !  " 

Lablache's  ejaculation  was  the  result  of  the  sudden  appari- 
tion of  a  dark  face  peering  in  at  his  window.  He  swung 
round  with  lightning  rapidity,  and  before  Horrocks  could 
realize  what  he  was  doing  his  fat  hand  was  grasping  the 
butt  of  a  revolver.  Then,  with  a  grunt  of  annoyance,  he 
turned  back  to  his  guest. 

"  That's  your  Breed,  I  take  it  For  the  moment  I  thought 
it  was  some  one  else;  it's  always  best  in  these  parts  to  shoot 
first  and  inquire  afterwards.  I  occasionally  get  some  strange 
visitors." 

The  policeman  laughed  as  he  went  to  the  door.  His 
irritation  at  the  money-lender's  manner  was  forgotten.  The 
strangeness  of  the  sight  of  Lablache's  twenty  stone  of  flesh 
moving  with  lightning  rapidity  astonished  him  beyond 
measure.  Had  he  not  seen  it  nothing  would  have  convinced 
him  of  the  man's  marvelous  agility  when  roused  by 
emergency.  It  was  something  worth  remembering. 

Sure  enough,  the  face  on  the  other  side  of  the  window 
belonged  to  Gautier,  and,  as  Horrocks  opened  the  door,  the 
Breed  pushed  his  way  stealthily  in. 

"  It's  all  right,  boss,"  said  the  man,  with  some  show  of 
anxiety,  "  I've  slipped  'em.  I'm  watched  pretty  closely,  but 
—  good  evening,  sir,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Lablache  with 


GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION  169 

obsequious  politeness.  '*  This  is  bad  medicine  —  this  busi- 
ness we're  on." 

Lablache  cleared  his  throat  and  spat,  but  deigned  no 
reply.  He  intended  to  take  no  part  in  the  ensuing  con- 
versation. He  only  wished  to  observe. 

Horrocks  at  once  became  the  officer  to  the  subordinate. 
He  turned  sharply  on  the  Breed. 

"  Cut  the  cackle  and  come  to  business.  Have  you  any- 
thing to  tell  us  about  this  Retief  ?  Out  with  it  sharp." 

"  That  depends,  boss,"  said  the  man,  with  a  cunning 
smile.  "  As  you  sez.  Cut  the  cackle  and  come  to  busi- 
ness. Business  means  a  deal,  and  a  deal  means  '  cash 
pappy.'  Wot's  the  figger?  " 

There  was  no  obsequious  politeness  about  the  fellow  now. 
He  was  about  as  bad  a  specimen  of  the  Breed  as  could  well 
be  found.  Hence  his  late  employment  by  the  authorities. 
"  The  worse  the  Breed  the  better  the  spy,"  was  the  motto  of 
those  whose  duty  it  was  to  investigate  crime.  Gautier  was 
an  excellent  spy,  thoroughly  unscruplous  and  rapacious. 
His  information  was  always  a  saleable  commodity,  and  he 
generally  found  his  market  a  liberal  one.  But  with  business 
instincts  worthy  of  Lablache  himself  he  was  accustomed  to 
bargain  first  and  impart  after. 

"  See  here,"  retorted  Horrocks,  "  I  don't  go  about  blind- 
folded. Neither  am  I  going  to  fling  bills  around  without 
getting  value  for  'em.  What's  your  news?  Can  you  lay 
hands  on  Retief,  or  tell  us  where  the  stock  is  hidden?" 

"  Guess  you're  looking  fer  somethin'  now,"  said  the  man, 
impudently.  "  Ef  I  could  supply  that  information  right  off 
some  'un  'ud  hev  to  dip  deep  in  his  pocket  fur  it.  I  ken 
put  you  on  to  a  good  even  trail,  an'  fifty  dollars  'ud  be  small 
pay  for  the  trouble  an'  the  danger  I'm  put  to.  Wot  say? 
Fifty  o'  the  best  greenbacks?  " 

"  Mr.  Lablache  can  pay  you  if  he  chooses,  but  until  I 
know  that  your  information's  worth  it  I  don't  part  with 
fifty  cents.  Now  then,  we've  had  dealings  before,  Gautier 
—  dealings  which  have  not  always  been  to  your  credit.  You 


170     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

can  trust  me  to  part  liberally  if  you've  anything  worth  tell- 
ing, but  mind  this,  you  don't  get  anything  beforehand,  and 
if  you  don't  tell  us  all  you  know,  in  you  go  to  Calford  and 
a  diet  of  skilly'll  be  your  lot  for  some  time  to  come." 

The  man's  face  lowered  considerably  at  this.  He  knew 
Horrocks  well,  and  was  perfectly  aware  that  he  would  be 
as  good  as  his  word.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
holding  out.  Therefore  he  accepted  the  inevitable  with  as 
bad  a  grace  as  possible.  Lablache  kept  silence,  but  he  was 
reading  the  Breed  as  he  would  a  book. 

"  See  hyar,  sergeant,"  said  Gautier,  sulkily,  "  you're 
mighty  hard  on  the  Breeds,  an'  you  know  it.  It'll  come 
back  on  you,  sure,  one  o'  these  days.  Guess  I'm  going  to 
play  the  game  square.  It  ain't  fur  me  to  bluff  men  o'  your 
kidney,  only  I  like  to  know  that  you're  going  to  treat  me 
right.  Well,  this  is  what  I've  got  to  say,  an'  it's  worth  fifty 
as  you'll  'low." 

Horrocks  propped  himself  upon  the  corner  of  the  money- 
lender's desk  and  prepared  to  listen.  Lablache's  lashless 
eyes  were  fixed  with  a  steady,  unblinking  stare  upon  the 
half-breed's  face.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  own  pasty,  cruel  face 
moved.  Gautier  was  talking  to,  at  least,  one  man  who  was 
more  cunning  and  devilish  than  himself. 

The  dusky  ruffian  gave  a  preliminary  cough  and  then 
launched  upon  his  story  with  all  the  flowery  embellishments 
of  which  his  inventive  fancy  was  capable.  What  he  had  to 
tell  was  practically  the  same  as  Horrocks  had  overheard. 
There  were  a  few  items  of  importance  which  came  fresh  to 
the  police-officer's  ears.  It  stuck  Lablache  that  the  man 
spoke  in  the  manner  of  a  lesson  well  learned,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, his  keen  interest  soon  relaxed.  Horrocks,  how- 
ever, judged  differently,  and  saw  in  the  man's  story  a  sound 
corroboration  of  his  own  information.  As  the  story  pro- 
gressed his  interest  deepened,  and  at  its  conclusion  he  ques- 
tioned the  half-breed  closely. 

"This  pusky.  I  suppose  it  will  be  the  usual  drunken 
orgie?" 


GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION  171 

"  I  guess,"  was  the  laconic  rejoinder. 

"  Any  of  the  Breeds  from  the  other  settlements  coming 
over?  " 

"  Can't  say,  boss.     Like  enough,  I  take  it." 

"  And  what  is  Retief 's  object  in  defraying  all  expenses  — 
in  giving  the  treat,  when  he  knows  that  the  white  men  are 
after  him  red-hot  ?  " 

"Mebbe  it's  bluff  — cheek.  Peter's  a  bold  man.  He 
snaps  his  fingers  at  the  police,"  replied  Gautier,  illustrating 
his  words  with  much  appreciation.  He  felt  he  was  getting 
a  smack  at  the  sergeant. 

"  Then  Peter's  a  fool." 

"  Guess  you're  wrong  thar.  Peter's  the  slickest  *  bad 
man  '  I've  heerd  tell  of." 

"We'll  see.  Now  what  about  the  keg?  Of  course  the 
cattle  have  crossed  it.  A  secret  path  ?  " 

"  Yup." 

"  Who  knows  the  secret  of  it?  " 

"  Peter." 

"Only?" 

The  Breed  hesitated.  His  furtive  eyes  shifted  from  one 
face  to  the  other  of  his  auditors.  Then  encountering  the 
fixed  stare  of  both  men  he  glanced  away  towards  the  window. 
He  seemed  uncomfortable  under  the  mute  inquiry.  Then 
he  went  on  doubtfully. 

"  I  guess  thar's  others.  It's  an  old  secret  among  the 
Breeds.  An'  I've  heerd  tell  as  some  whites  knows  it." 

A  swift  exchange  of  meaning  glances  passed  between  the 
two  listeners. 

"Who?" 

"  Can't  say." 

"Won't  — you  mean?" 

"  No,  boss.  Ef  I  knew  it  'ud  pay  me  well  to  tell.  Guess 
I  don't  know.  I've  tried  to  find  out." 

"  Now  look  you.  Retief  has  always  been  supposed  to 
have  been  drowned  in  the  keg.  Where's  he  been  all  the 
time?  " 


172      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  half-breed  grinned.  Then  his  face  became  suddenly 
serious.  He  began  to  think  the  cross-questioning  was  be- 
coming too  hot  He  decided  to  draw  on  his  imagination. 

"  Peter  was  no  more  drowned  than  I  was.  He  tricked 
you  —  us  all  —  into  that  belief.  Gee! — but  he's  slick. 
Peter  went  to  Montana.  When  the  States  got  too  sultry  fur 
'im  he  jest  came  right  back  hyar.  He's  been  at  the  camp 
fur  two  weeks  an'  more." 

Horrocks  was  silent  after  this.  Then  he  turned  to 
Lablache. 

"  Anything  you'd  like  to  ask  him?  " 

The  money-lender  shook  his  head  and  Horrocks  turned 
back  to  his  man. 

"  I  guess  that's  all.  Here's  your  fifty,"  he  went  on,  tak- 
ing a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket  and  counting  out  the 
coveted  greenbacks.  "  See  and  don't  get  mad  drunk  and 
get  to  shooting.  Off  you  go.  If  you  learn  anything  more 
I'm  ready  to  pay  for  it." 

Gautier  took  the  bills  and  hastily  crammed  them  into 
his  pocket  as  if  he  feared  he  might  be  called  upon  to  return 
them.  Then  he  made  for  the  door.  He  hesitated  before 
he  passed  out. 

"  Say,  sergeant,  you  ain't  goin'  fur  to  try  an'  take  'im  at 
the  pusky?  "  he  asked,  with  an  appearance  of  anxiety. 

"That's  my  business.   *Why?" 

The  Breed  shrugged. 

"  Ye'll  feed  the  coyotes,  sure  as  —  kingdom  come.  Say 
they'll  jest  flay  the  pelt  off  yer." 

"Git!" 

The  rascal  "  got "  without  further  delay  or  evil  prophecy. 
He  knew  Horrocks. 

When  the  door  closed,  and  the  officer  had  assured  him- 
self of  the  man's  departure,  he  turned  to  his  host. 

"Well?" 

"Well?"  retorted  Lablache. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"  An  excellent  waste  of  fifty  dollars." 


GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION  173 

Lablache's  face  was  expressive  of  indifference  mixed  with 
incredulity. 

"  He  told  you  what  you  already  knew,"  he  pursued,  "  and 
drew  on  his  imagination  for  the  rest.  I'll  swear  that  Retief 
has  not  been  seen  at  the  Breed  camp  for  the  last  fortnight. 
Moreover,  that  man  was  reciting  a  carefully-thought-out 
tale.  I  fancy  you  have  something  yet  to  learn  in  your 
business,  Horrocks.  'You  have  not  the  gift  of  reading 
men." 

The  police-officer's  face  was  a  study.  As  he  listened  to 
the  masterful  tone  of  his  companion  his  color  came  and  went. 
His  dark  skin  flushed  and  then  rapidly  paled.  A  blaze  of 
anger  leapt  into  his  keen,  flashing  eyes.  Lablache  had 
flicked  him  sorely.  He  struggled  to  keep  cool. 

"  Unfortunately  my  position  will  not  allow  me  to  fall  out 
with  you,"  he  said,  with  scarcely-suppressed  heat,  "  other- 
wise I  should  call  you  sharply  to  account  for  your  insulting 
remarks.  For  the  moment  we  will  pass  them  over.  In  the 
meantime,  Mr.  Lablache,  let  me  tell  you,  my  experience  leads 
me  to  trust  largely  to  the  story  of  that  man.  Gautier  has 
sold  me  a  good  deal  of  excellent  information  in  the  past,  and 
I  am  convinced  that  what  I  have  now  heard  is  not  the  least 
of  his  efforts  in  the  law's  behalf.  Rascal  —  scoundrel  —  as 
he  is,  he  would  not  dare  to  set  me  on  a  false  scent  — " 

"  Not  if  backed  by  a  man  like  Retief  —  and  all  the  half- 
breed  camp?  You  surprise  me." 

Horrocks  gritted  his  teeth  but  spoke  sharply.  Lablache's 
supercilious  tone  of  mockery  drove  him  to  the  verge  of 
madness. 

"  Not  even  under  these  circumstances.  I  shall  attend  that 
pusky  and  effect  the  arrest.  I  understand  these  people  bet- 
ter than  you  give  me  credit  for.  I  presume  your  discretion 
will  not  permit  you  to  be  present  at  the  capture?  " 

It  was  Horrocks's  turn  to  sneer  now.  Lablache  remained 
unmoved.  He  merely  permitted  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"  My  discretion  will  not  permit  me  to  be  present  at  the 
pusky.  There  will  be  no  capture,  I  fear." 


174      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Then  I'll  bid  you  good-night.  There  is  no  need  to 
further  intrude  upon  your  time." 

"  None  whatever." 

The  money-lender  did  not  attempt  to  show  the  policeman 
any  consideration.  He  had  decided  that  Horrocks  was  a 
fool,  and  when  Lablache  formed  such  an  opinion  of  a  man 
he  rarely  attempted  to  conceal  it,  especially  when  the  man 
stood  in  a  subordinate  position. 

After  seeing  the  officer  off  the  premises,  Lablache  moved 
heavily  back  to  his  desk.  The  alarm  clock  indicated  ten 
minutes  to  nine.  He  stood  for  some  moments  gazing  with 
introspective  eyes  at  the  timepiece.  He  was  thinking  hard. 
He  was  convinced  that  what  he  had  just  heard  was  a  mere 
fabrication,  invented  to  cover  some  ulterior  motive.  That 
motive  puzzled  him.  He  had  no  fear  for  Horrocks's  life. 
Horrocks  wore  the  uniform  of  the  Government.  Lawless 
and  all  as  the  Breeds  were,  he  knew  they  would  not  resist 
the  police  —  unless,  of  course,  Retief  were  there.  Having 
decided  in  his  mind  that  Retief  would  not  be  there  he  had 
no  misgivings.  He  failed  to  fathom  the  trend  of  affairs  at 
all.  In  spite  of  his  outward  calm  he  felt  uneasy,  and  he 
started  as  though  he  had  been  shot  when  he  heard  a  loud 
knocking  at  his  private  door. 

The  money-lender's  hand  dropped  on  to  the  revolver  lying 
upon  the  desk,  and  he  carried  the  weapon  with  him  when 
he  went  to  answer  the  summons.  His  alarm  was  needless. 
His  late  visitor  was  "  Poker  "  John. 

The  old  rancher  came  in  sheepishly  enough.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  meaning  of  his  peculiar  crouching  gait, 
the  leering  upward  glance  of  his  bloodshot  eyes.  To  any 
one  who  did  not  know  him,  his  appearance  might  have  been 
that  of  a  drink-soaked  tramp,  so  dishevelled  and  bleared  he 
looked.  Lablache  took  in  the  old  man's  condition  in  one 
swift  glance  from  his  pouched  and  fishy  eyes.  His  greeting 
was  cordial  —  too  cordial.  Any  other  but  the  good-hearted, 
simple  old  man  would  have  been  suspicious  of  it.  Cordiality 
was  not  Lablache's  nature. 


GAUTIER  CAUSES  DISSENSION  175 

"Ah,  John,  better  late  than  never,"  he  exclaimed 
gutturally.  "  Come  in  and  have  a  smoke." 

"Yes,  I  thought  I'd  just  come  right  down  and  —  see  if 
you'd  got  any  news." 

"None  —  none,  old  friend.  Nothing  at  all.  Horrocks 
is  a  fool,  I'm  thinking.  Take  that  chair,"  pointing  to  the 
basket  chair.  "  You're  not  looking  up  to  the  mark.  Have 
a  nip  of  Glenlivet." 

He  passed  the  white-labeled  bottle  over  to  his  companion, 
and  watched  the  rancher  curiously  as  he  shakily  helped 
himself  to  a  liberal  "  four  fingers."  "  Poker  "  John  was 
rapidly  breaking  up.  Lablache  fully  realized  this. 

"  No  news  —  no  news,"  murmured  John,  as  he  smacked 
his  lips  over  his  "  tot "  of  whisky.  "  It's  bad,  man,  very 
bad.  We're  not  safe  in  this  place  whilst  that  man's  about. 
Dear,  dear,  dear." 

The  senility  of  the  rancher  was  painfully  apparent. 
Doubtless  it  was  the  result  of  his  recent  libations  and 
excesses.  The  money-lender  was  quite  aware  that  John  had 
not  come  to  him  to  discuss  the  "  hustler."  He  had  come 
to  suggest  a  game  of  cards,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own  the 
former  wished  to  postpone  the  request.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected that  "Poker"  John  would  have  come  this  evening; 
therefore,  certain  plans  of  his  were  not  to  have  been  put  into 
execution  until  the  following  day.  Now,  however,  it  was 
different.  John's  coming,  and  his  condition,  offered  him  a 
chance  which  was  too  good  to  be  missed,  and  Lablache  was 
never  a  man  to  miss  opportunities. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    NIGHT    OF    THE    PUSKY 

PRESENTLY  the  old  man  drew  himself  up  a  little.  The 
spirit  had  a  bracing  effect  upon  him.  The  dull  leering 
eyes  assumed  a  momentary  brightness,  and  he  almost  grew 
cheerful.  The  change  was  not  lost  upon  Lablache.  It  was 
a  veritable  game  of  the  cat  and  the  mouse. 

"This  is  the  first  time  your  stock  has  been  touched," 
said  John,  meaninglessly.  His  thoughts  were  running  upon 
the  game  of  cards  he  had  promised  himself.  An  unaccount- 
able lack  of  something  like  moral  courage  prevented  him 
talking  of  it.  Possibly  it  was  the  iron  influence  of  his  com- 
panion which  forbade  the  suggestion  of  cards.  "  Poker " 
John  was  inwardly  chafing  at  his  own  weakness. 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  other,  "  I  have  not  been  touched 
before."  Then,  suddenly,  he  leant  forward,  and,  for  the 
moment,  the  money-lender's  face  lit  up  with  something  akin 
to  kindliness.  It  was  an  unusual  sight,  and  one  not  to  be 
relied  upon.  "  How  many  years  is  it,  John,  that  we  have 
struggled  side  by  side  in  this  benighted  land?" 

The  rancher  looked  at  the  other,  then  his  eyes  dropped. 
He  scarcely  comprehended.  He  was  startled  at  the  expres- 
sion of  that  leathery,  puffed  face.  He  shifted  uneasily 
with  the  curious  weakly  restlessness  of  a  shattered  nerve. 

"  More  years,  I  guess,  than  I  care  to  think  of,"  he  mur- 
mured at  last. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you're  right,  John  —  quite  right.  It  doesn't 
do  to  look  back  too  far.  We're  getting  on.  But  we're  not 
old  men  yet.  We're  rich,  John,  rich  in  land  and  experience. 
No,  not  so  old.  We  can  still  give  the  youngsters  points, 
John.  Ha,  ha!" 

176 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY  177 

Lablache  laughed  hollowly  at  his  own  pleasantry.  His 
companion  joined  in  the  laugh,  but  without  mirth.  Poker 
—  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  poker.  The  money-lender 
insinuatingly  pushed  the  whisky  bottle  closer  to  the  senile 
rancher.  Almost  unconsciously  the  old  man  helped  him- 
self. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  would  be  like  living  a  private,  idle 
life  ?  "  Lablache  went  on,  as  though  speaking  to  himself. 
Then  directly  to  his  companion,  "  Do  you  know,  old  friend, 
I'm  seriously  thinking  of  selling  out  all  my  interests  and 
retiring.  I've  worked  very  hard  —  very  hard.  I'm  getting 
tired  of  it  all.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  rest  would  be  good. 
I  have  amassed  a  very  large  fortune,  John  —  as  you  know." 

The  confidences  of  the  money-lender  were  so  unusual 
that  "  Poker "  John,  in  a  dazed  way,  mildly  wondered. 
The  whisky  had  roused  him  a  good  deal  now,  and  he  felt 
that  it  was  good  to  talk  like  this.  He  felt  that  the  money- 
lender was  a  good  fellow,  and  much  better  than  he  had 
thought.  He  even  experienced  compunction  for  the  opinions 
which,  at  times,  he  had  expressed  of  this  old  companion. 
Drink  plays  strange  pranks  with  one's  better  judgment  at 
times.  Lablache  noted  the  effect  of  his  words  carefully. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  you  have  worked  hard  —  we  have 
both  worked  hard.  Our  lives  have  not  been  altogether  with- 
out pleasure.  The  occasional  game  of  cards  we  have  had  to- 
gether has  always  helped  to  relieve  monotony,  eh,  Lablache? 
Yes  —  yes.  No  one  can  say  we  have  not  earned  rest.  But 
there  —  yes,  you  have  been  more  fortunate  than  I.  I  could 
not  retire." 

Lablache  raised  his  sparse  eyebrows.  Then  he  helped 
himself  to  some  whisky  and  pushed  the  bottle  over  to  the 
other.  When  John  had  again  replenished  his  glass  the 
money-lender  solemnly  raised  his  and  waved  it  towards  the 
gray-headed  old  man.  John  responded  unsteadily. 

"How!" 

"  How !  "  replied  the  rancher. 

Both  men  drank  the  old  Indian  toast.     Simple  honesty 


178      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

was  in  one  heart,  while  duplicity  and  low  cunning  filled  the 
other. 

"  You  could  not  retire  ?  "  said  Lablache,  when  they  had 
set  their  empty  glasses  upon  the  desk. 

"No  —  no,"  answered  the  other,  shaking  his  head  with 
ludicrous  mourn  fulness,  "not  retire;  I  have  responsibilities 
—  debts.  You  should  know.  I  must  pay  them  off.  I 
must  leave  Jacky  provided  for." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  You  must  pay  them  off.  Jacky  should 
be  your  first  consideration." 

Lablache  pursed  his  sensual  lips.  His  expression  was 
one  of  deep  concern.  Then  he  apparently  fell  into  a  reverie, 
during  which  John  was  wondering  how  best  to  propose  the 
longed-for  game  of  cards.  The  other  roused  himself  before 
the  desired  means  suggested  itself  to  the  old  gambler.  And 
his  efforts  were  cut  short  abruptly. 

"  Jacky  ought  to  marry,"  Lablache  said  without  preamble. 
"  One  never  knows  what  may  happen.  A  good  husband  — 
a  man  with  money  and  business  capacity,  would  be  a  great 
help  to  you,  and  would  assure  her  future." 

Lablache  had  touched  upon  the  one  strong  point  which 
remained  in  John  Allandale's  character.  His  love  for 
Jacky  rivaled  his  passion  for  poker,  and  in  its* pure  honesty 
was  perhaps  nearly  as  strong  as  that  feverish  zest.  The 
gambler  suddenly  became  electrified  into  a  different  being. 
The  signs  of  decay  —  the  atmosphere  of  drink,  as  it  were, 
fell  from  him  in  the  flashing  of  a  second,  and  the  old  vig- 
orous rancher,  like  the  last  dying  flame  of  a  fire,  shot  up 
into  being. 

"  Jacky  shall  marry  when  she  chooses,  and  whatever  man 
she  prefers.  I  will  never  profit  by  that  dear  child's  mat- 
rimonial affairs,"  he  said  simply. 

Lablache  bit  his  lips.  He  had  been  slightly  premature. 
He  acquiesced  with  a  heavy  nod  of  the  head  and  poured 
himself  out  some  more  whisky.  The  example  was  natural 
and  his  companion  followed  it. 

"  You  are  quite  right,   John.     I  merely  spoke  from   a 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY  179 

worldly  point  of  view.  But  your  decision  affects  me 
closely." 

The  other  looked  curiously  at  the  money-lender,  who  thus 
found  himself  forced  to  proceed.  Hitherto  he  had  chosen 
his  own  gait.  Now  he  felt  himself  being  drawn.  The 
process  was  new  to  him,  but  it  suited  his  purpose. 

"How?" 

Lablache  sighed.  It  was  like  the  breathing  of  an  adi- 
pose pig. 

"  I  have  known  that  niece  of  yours,  John,  ever  since  she 
came  into  this  world.  I  have  watched  her  grow.  I  un- 
derstand her  nature  as  well  as  you  do  yourself.  She  is  a 
clever,  bright,  winsome  girl.  But  she  needs  the  guiding  hand 
of  a  good  husband." 

"Just  so.  You  are  right.  I  am  too  old  to  take  proper 
care  of  her.  When  she  chooses  she  shall  marry." 

John's  tone  was  decisive.  His  words  were  non-com- 
mitting and  open  to  no  argument.  Lablache  went  on. 

"  Supposing  now  a  rich  man,  a  very  rich  man,  proposed 
marriage  for  her.  Presuming  he  was  a  man  against  whom 
there  was  no  doubtful  record  —  who,  from  a  worldly  point 
of  view,  there  could  be  no  objection  to  —  should  you  object 
to  him  as  a  ljusband  for  Jacky?  " 

The  rancher  was  still  unsuspecting. 

"  What  I  have  stated  should  answer  your  question.  If 
Jacky  were  willing  I  should  have  no  objection." 

"  Supposing,"  the  money-lender  went  on,  "  she  were  un- 
willing, but  was  content  to  abide  by  your  decision.  What 
then?" 

There  was  a  passing  gleam  of  angry  protest  in  the 
rancher's  eyes  as  he  answered. 

"  What  I  have  said  still  holds  good,"  he  retorted  a  little 
hotly.  "  I  will  not  influence  the  child." 

"  I  am  sorry.     I  wish  to  marry  your  girl." 

There  was  an  impressive  silence  after  this  announcement. 
"  Poker "  John  stared  in  blank  wonderment  at  his  com- 
panion. The  expectation  of  such  a  contingency  could  not 


180     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

have  been  farther  from  his  thought.  Lablache  —  to  marry 
his  niece  —  it  was  preposterous  —  ludicrous.  He  would  not 
take  it  seriously  —  he  could  not.  It  was  a  joke  —  and  not  a 
nice  one. 

He  laughed  —  and  in  his  laugh  there  was  a  ring  of 
anger. 

"  Of  course  you  are  joking,  Lablache,"  he  said  at  last 
"  Why,  man,  you  are  old  enough  to  be  the  girl's  father." 

"  I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life.  And  as  for  age," 
with  a  shrug,  "  at  least  you  will  admit  my  intellect  is  unim- 
paired. Her  interests  will  be  in  safe  keeping." 

Having  recovered  from  his  surprise  the  old  man  solemnly 
shook  his  head.  Some  inner  feeling  made  him  shrink  from 
thoughts  of  Lablache  as  a  husband  for  his  girl.  Besides, 
he  had  no  intention  of  retreating  from  the  stand  he  had 
taken. 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned  the  matter  is  quite  impossible. 
If  Jacky  comes  to  me  with  a  request  for  sanction  of  her 
marriage  to  you,  she  shall  have  it.  But  I  will  express  no 
wish  upon  the  matter.  No,  Lablache,  I  never  thought  you 
contemplated  such  a  thing.  You  must  go  to  her.  I  will  not 
interfere.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  "  and  the  old  man  laughed 
again  nervously. 

Lablache  remained  perfectly  calm.  He  had  expected 
this  result;  although  he  had  hoped  that  it  might  have  been 
otherwise.  Now  he  felt  that  he  had  paved  the  way  to 
methods  much  dearer  to  his  heart.  This  refusal  of  John's 
he  intended  to  turn  to  account.  He  would  force  an  ac- 
ceptance from  Jacky,  and  induce  her  uncle,  by  certain  means, 
to  give  his  consent. 

The  money-lender  remained  silent  while  he  refilled  his 
pipe.  "  Poker  "  John  seized  the  opportunity. 

"  Come,  Lablache,"  he  said  jocosely,  "  let  us  forget  this 
little  matter.  Have  a  drink  of  your  own  whisky  —  I'll  join 
you  —  and  let  us  go  down  to  the  saloon  for  a  gentle  flutter." 

He  helped  himself  to  the  spirit  and  poured  out  a  glass 
for  his  companion.  They  silently  drank,  and  then  La- 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY  181 

blache  coughed,  spat  and  lit  his  pipe.  He  fumbled  his  hat 
on  to  his  head  and  moved  to  the  door. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  he  said  gutturally.  And  John  Allan- 
dale  followed  him  out. 

The  two  days  before  the  half-breed  pusky  passed  quickly 
enough  for  some  of  those  who  are  interested,  and  dragged 
their  weary  lengths  all  too  slowly  for  others.  At  last,  how- 
ever, in  due  course  the  day  dawned,  and  with  it  hopes  and 
fears  matured  in  the  hearts  of  not  a  few  of  the  denizens  of 
Foss  River  and  the  surrounding  neighborhood. 

To  all  appearance  the  most  unconcerned  man  was  the  Hon. 
Bunning-Ford,  who  still  moved  about  the  settlement  in  his 
cheery,  debonnaire  fashion,  ever  gentlemanly  and  always 
indolent.  He  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  one  of  the  many 
disused  shacks  which  dotted  round  the  market-place,  and 
there,  apparently,  sought  to  beguile  the  hours  and  eke  out 
the  few  remaining  dollars  which  were  his.  For  Lablache,  in 
his  sweeping  process,  had  still  been  forced  to  hand  over  some 
money,  over  and  above  his  due,  as  a  result  of  the  sale  of  the 
young  rancher's  property.  The  trifling  amount,  however, 
was  less  than  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  for  six 
months. 

Lablache,  too,  staunch  to  his  opinions,  did  not  trouble 
himself  in  the  least.  For  the  rest,  all  who  knew  of  the  medi- 
tated coup  of  Horrocks  were  agitated  io  a  degree.  All  hoped 
for  success,  but  all  agreed  in  a  feeling  of  pessimism  which 
was  more  or  less  the  outcome  of  previous  experiences  of 
Retief.  Did  not  they  know,  only  too  well,  of  the  traps  which 
had  been  laid  and  which  had  failed  to  ensnare  the  daring 
desperado  in  days  gone  by?  Horrocks  they  fondly  believed 
to  be  a  very  smart  man,  but  had  not  some  of  the  best  in 
the  Canadian  police  been  sent  before  to  bring  to  justice  this 
scourge  of  the  district? 

Amongst  those  who  shared  these  pessimistic  views  Mrs. 
Abbot  was  one  of  the  most  skeptical.  She  had  learnt  all 
the  details  of  the  intended  arrest  in  the  way  she  learned 
everything  that  was  going  on.  A  few  judicious  questions  to 


182      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  doctor  and  careful  observations  never  left  her  long  in 
the  dark.  She  had  a  natural  gift  for  absorbing  information. 
She  was  a  sort  of  social  amalgam  which  never  failed  to 
glean  the  golden  particles  of  news  which  remained  after  the 
"  panning  up  "  of  daily  events  in  Foss  River.  Nothing  ever 
escaped  this  dear  old  soul,  from  the  details  of  a  political 
crisis  in  a  distant  part  of  the  continent  down  to  the  number 
of  drinks  absorbed  by  some  worthless  half-breed  in  "  old 
man"  Smith's  saloon.  She  had  one  of  those  keen,  active 
brains  which  refuses  to  become  dull  and  torpid  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  humdrum  monotony.  Luckily  her  nature  never 
allowed  her  to  become  a  mischievous  busybody.  She  was 
too  kindly  for  that  —  too  clever,  tactful. 

After  duly  weighing  the  point  at  issue  she  found  Hor- 
rocks's  plans  wanting,  hence  her  unbelief,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  her  old  heart  palpitated  with  nervous  excitement  as 
might  the  heart  of  any  younger  and  more  hopeful  of  those 
in  the  know. 

As  for  the  Allandales,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  what  they 
thought.  Jacky  went  about  her  duties  with  a  placidity  that 
was  almost  worthy  of  the  great  money-lender  himself.  She 
showed  no  outward  sign,  and  very  little  interest.  Her 
thoughts  she  kept  severely  to  herself.  But  she  had  thoughts 
on  the  subject,  thoughts  which  teemed  through  her  brain 
night  and  day.  She  was  in  reality  aglow  with  excitement, 
but  the  Breed  nature  in  her  allowed  no  sign  of  emotion  to 
appear.  . "  Poker "  John  was  beyond  a  keen  interest. 
Whisky  and  cards  had  done  for  him  what  morphine  and 
opium  does  for  the  drug  fiend.  He  had  no  thoughts  beyond 
them.  In  lucid  intervals,  as  it  were,  he  thought,  perhaps,  as 
well  as  his  poor  dulled  brain  would  permit  him,  but  the  result 
of  his  mental  effort  would  scarcely  be  worth  recording. 

And  so  the  time  drew  near. 

Horrocks,  since  his  difference  of  opinion  with  Lablache, 
had  made  the  ranch  his  headquarters,  leaving  the  money- 
lender as  much  as  possible  out  of  his  consultations.  He 
had  been  heartily  welcomed  by  old  John  and  his  niece,  the 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY  183 

latter  in  particular  being  very  gracious  to  him.  Horrocks 
was  not  a  lady's  man,  but  he  appreciated  comfort  when  he 
could  get  it,  and  Jacky  spared  no  trouble  to  make  him  com- 
fortable now.  Had  he  known  the  smiling  thought  behind 
her  beautiful  face  his  appreciation  might  have  lessened. 

As  the  summer  day  drew  to  a  close  signs  of  coming  events 
began  to  show  themselves.  First  of  all  Aunt  Margaret  made 
her  appearance  at  the  Allandales'  house.  She  was  hot  and 
excited.  She  had  come  up  for  a  gossip,  she  said,  and 
promptly  sat  down  with  no  intention  of  moving  until  she 
had  heard  all  she  wanted  to  know.  Then  came  "  Lord  " 
Bill,  cheerily  monosyllabic.  He  always  considered  that  long 
speeches  were  a  disgusting  waste  of  time.  Following  closely 
upon  his  heels  came  the  doctor  and  Pat  Nabob,  with  another 
rancher  from  an  outlying  ranch.  Quite  why  they  had  come 
up  they  would  have  hesitated  to  say.  Possibly  it  was  cu- 
riosity —  possibly  natural  interest  in  affairs  which  nearly  af- 
fected them.  Horrocks,  they  knew,  was  at  the  ranch.  Per- 
haps the  magnetism  which  surrounds  persons  about  to  embark 
on  hazardous  undertakings  had  attracted  them  thither. 

As  the  hour  for  supper  drew  near  the  gathering  in  the 
sitting-room  became  considerable,  and  as  each  newcomer 
presented  himself,  Jacky,  with  thoughtful  hospitality,  caused 
another  place  to  be  set  at  her  bountiful  table.  No  one  was 
ever  allowed  to  pass  a  meal  hour  at  the  ranch  without  par- 
taking of  refreshment.  It  was  one  of  the  principal  items 
provided  for  in  the  prairie  creed,  and  the  greatest  insult  to 
be  offered  at  such  time  would  have  been  to  leave  the  house 
before  the  repast. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  girl  announced  the  meal  with  char- 
acteristic heartiness. 

"  Come  right  along  and  feed,"  she  said.  "  Who  knows 
what  to-night  may  bring  forth?  I  guess  we  can't  do  bet- 
ter than  drink  success  to  our  friend,  Sergeant  Horrocks. 
Whatever  the  result  of  his  work  to-night  we  all  allow  his 
nerve's  right.  Say,  good  people,  there's  liquor  on  the  table 
—  and  glasses ;  a  bumper  to  Sergeant  Horrocks." 


184     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  wording  of  the  girl's  remarks  was  significant.  Truly 
Horrocks  might  have  been  the  leader  of  a  forlorn  hope. 
Many  of  those  present  certainly  considered  him  to  be  such. 
However,  they  were  none  the  less  hearty  in  their  toast,  and 
Jacky  and  Bill  were  the  two  first  to  raise  their  glasses  on 
high. 

The  toast  drunk,  tongues  were  let  loose  and  the  supper 
began.  Ten  o'clock  was  the  time  at  which  Horrocks  was 
to  set  out  Therefore  there  were  two  hours  in  which  to  make 
merry.  Never  was  a  merrier  meal  taken  at  the  ranch. 
Spirits  were  at  bursting  point,  due  no  doubt  to  the  cur- 
rent of  excitement  which  actuated  each  member  of  the  gather- 
ing. 

Jacky  was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  even  "  Poker  "  John 
was  enjoying  one  of  his  rare  lucid  intervals.  "  Lord  "  Bill 
sat  between  Jacky  and  Mrs.  Abbot,  and  a  more  charming 
companion  the  old  lady  thought  she  had  never  met.  It 
was  Jacky  who  led  the  talk,  Jacky  who  saw  to  every  one's 
wants,  Jacky  whose  spirits  cheered  everybody,  by  her  light 
badinage,  into,  even  against  their  better  judgment,  a  feeling 
of  optimism.  Even  Horrocks  felt  the  influence  of  her  bright, 
winsome  cheeriness. 

"  Capture  this  colored  scoundrel,  Sergeant  Horrocks," 
the  girl  exclaimed,  with  a  laughing  glance,  as  she  helped 
him  to  a  goodly  portion  of  baked  Jack-rabbit,  "  and  we'll 
present  you  with  the  freedom  of  the  settlement,  in  an  illu- 
minated address  inclosed  in  a  golden  casket.  That's  the 
mode,  I  take  it,  in  civilized  countries,  and  I  guess  we  are 
civilized  hereabout,  some.  Say,  Bill,  I  opine  you're  the 
latest  thing  from  England  here  to-night.  What  does  *  free- 
dom '  mean  ?  " 

Bill  looked  dubious.     Everybody  waited  for  his  answer. 

"  Freedom  —  um.  Yes,  of  course  —  freedom.  Why, 
freedom  means  banquets.  You  know  —  turtle  soup  —  bile 
—  indigestion.  Best  champagne  in  the  mayor's  cellar. 
Police  can't  run  you  in  if  you  get  drunk.  All  that  sort 
of  thing,  don'tcherknow." 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY  185 

"  An  excellent  definition,"  laughed  the  doctor. 

"  I  wish  somebody  would  present  me  with  l  freedom,'  " 
said  Nabob,  plaintively. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  we  don't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing 
extensively  in  Canada,"  put  in  Horrocks,  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  law.  "  The  peaceful  pastime  of  the  police  would 
soon  be  taken  from  them.  Why,  the  handling  of  '  drunks ' 
is  our  only  recreation." 

"  That,  and  for  some  of  them  the  process  of  lowering  four 
per  cent,  beer,"  added  the  doctor,  quietly. 

Another  laugh  followed  the  doctor's  sally. 

When  the  mirth  had  subsided  Aunt  Margaret  shook  her 
head.  This  levity  rather  got  on  her  nerves.  This  Retief 
business,  as  she  understood  it,  was  a  very  serious  affair, 
especially  for  Sergeant  Horrocks.  She  was  keenly  anxious 
to  hear  the  details  of  his  preparations.  She  knew  most  of 
them,  but  she  liked  her  information  first  hand.  With  this 
object  in  view  she  suggested,  rather  than  asked,  what  she 
wanted  to  know. 

"  But  I  don't  quite  understand.  I  take  it  you  are  going 
single-handed  into  the  half-breed  camp,  where  you  expect  to 
find  this  Retief,  Sergeant  Horrocks  ?  " 

Horrocks's  face  was  serious  as  he  looked  over  at  the 
old  lady.  There  was  no  laughter  in  his  black,  flashing 
eyes.  He  was  not  a  man  given  to  suavity.  His  business 
effectually  crushed  any  approach  to  that  sort  of  thing.  He 
was  naturally  a  stern  man,  too. 

"  I  am  not  quite  mad,  madam,"  he  said  curtly.  "  I  set 
some  value  upon  my  life." 

This  crushing  rejoinder  had  no  effect  upon  Aunt  Margaret. 
She  still  persisted. 

"Then,  of  course,  you  take  your  men  with  you.  Four, 
you  have,  and  smart  they  look,  too.  I  like  to  see  well- 
set-up  men.  I  trust  you  will  succeed.  They  —  I  mean  the 
Breeds  —  are  a  dangerous  people." 

"Not  so  dangerous  as  they're  reckoned,  I  guess,"  said 
Horrocks,  disdainfully.  "  I  don't  anticipate  much  trouble." 


186     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  I  hope  it  will  turn  out  as  you  think,"  replied  the  old 
lady,  doubtfully. 

Horrocks  shrugged  his  shoulders;  he  was  not  to  be  drawn. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  after  this,  which  was  at 
length  broken  by  "Poker"  John. 

"  Of  course,  Horrocks,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  carry  out 
your  instructions  to  the  letter.  At  three  in  the  morning, 
failing  your  return  or  news  of  you,  I  set  out  with  my  ranch 
hands  to  find  you.  And  woe  betide  those  black  devils  if 
you  have  come  to  harm.  By  the  way,  what  about  your 
men?" 

"They  assemble  here  at  ten.  We  leave  our  horses  at 
Lablache's  stables.  We  are  going  to  walk  to  the  settle- 
ment." 

"  I  think  you  are  wise,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Guess  horses  would  be  an  encumbrance,"  said  Jacky. 

"  An  excellent  mark  for  a  Breed's  gun,"  added  Bill. 
"  Seems  to  me  you'll  succeed,"  he  went  on  politely.  His 
eagle  face  was  calmly  sincere.  The  gray  eyes  looked  steadily 
into  those  of  the  officer's.  Jacky  was  watching  her  lover 
keenly.  The  faintest  suspicion  of  a  smile  was  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  there,"  she  said  simply,  when  Bill 
had  finished.  "  It's  mean  bad  luck  being  a  girl.  Say,  d'you 
think  I'd  be  in  the  way,  sergeant  ?  " 

Horrocks  looked  over  at  her,  and  in  his  gaze  was  a  look 
of  admiration.  In  the  way  he  knew  she  would  be,  but  he 
could  not  tell  her  so.  Such  spirit  appealed  to  him. 

"  There  would  be  much  danger  for  you,  Miss  Jacky," 
he  said.  "  My  hands  would  be  full,  I  could  not  look  after 
you,  and  besides  — "  He  broke  off  at  the  recollection  of  the 
old  stories  about  this  girl.  Suddenly  he  wondered  if  he 
had  been  indiscreet.  What  if  the  stories  were  true.  He 
ran  cold  at  the  thought.  These  people  knew  his  plans. 
Then  he  looked  into  the  girl's  beautiful  face.  No,  it  must 
be  false.  She  could  have  nothing  in  common  with  the 
rascally  Breeds. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PUSKY  187 

"  And  besides  —  what  ?  "  Jacky  said,  smiling  over  at  the 
policeman. 

Horrocks  shrugged. 

"When  Breeds  are  drunk  they  are  not  responsible." 

"  That  settles  it,"  the  girl's  uncle  said,  with  a  forced  laugh. 
He  did  not  like  Jacky 's  tone.  Knowing  her,  he  feared  she 
intended  to  be  there  to  see  the  arrest. 

Her  uncle's  laugh  nettled  the  girl  a  little,  and  with  a 
slight  elevation  of  her  head,  she  said, — 

"  I  don't  know." 

Further  talk  now  became  impossible,  for,  at  that  moment 
the  troopers  arrived.  Horrocks  discovered  that  it  was  nearly 
ten  o'clock.  The  moment  for  the  start  had  come,  and,  with 
one  accord,  everybody  rose  from  the  table.  In  the  bustle 
and  handshaking  of  departure  Jacky  slipped  away.  When 
she  returned  the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Abbot  were  in  the  hall 
alone  with  "  Lord "  Bill.  The  latter  was  just  leaving. 
"  Poker  "  John  was  on  the  veranda  seeing  Horrocks  off. 

As  Jacky  came  downstairs  Aunt  Margaret's  eyes  fell  upon 
the  ominous  holster  and  cartridge  belt  which  circled  the  girl's 
hips.  She  was  dressed  for  riding.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
taking the  determined  set  of  her  face. 

"  Jacky,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  lady  in  dismay.  "  What 
are  you  doing?  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  Guess  I'm  going  to  see  the  fun  —  I've  a  notion  there'll 
be  some." 

"But—" 

"  Don't  '  but '  me,  Aunt  Margaret,  I  take  it  you  aren't 
deaf." 

The  old  lady  relapsed  into  dignified  silence,  but  there  was 
much  concern  and  a  little  understanding  in  her  eyes  as  she 
watched  the  girl  pass  out  to  the  corrals. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   PUSKY. 

A  PUSKY  is  a  half-breed  dance.  That  is  the  literal  mean- 
ing of  the  word.  The  practical  translation,  however,  is 
often  different.  In  reality  it  is  a  debauch  —  a  frightful 
orgie,  when  all  the  lower  animal  instincts  —  and  they  are 
many  and  strong  in  the  half-breed  —  are  given  full  sway. 
When  drunkenness  and  bestial  passions  rule  the  actions  of 
these  worse  than  savages.  When  murder  and  crimes  of  all 
sorts  are  committed  without  scruple,  without  even  thought. 
Latterly  things  have  changed,  and  these  orgies  are  less  fre- 
quent among  the  Breeds,  or,  at  least,  conducted  with  more 
regard  for  decorum.  But  we  are  talking  of  some  years  ago, 
at  a  time  when  the  Breeds  had  to  learn  the  meaning  of 
civilization  —  before  good  order  and  government  were 
thoroughly  established  in  this  great  Western  country;  in 
the  days  when  Indian  "  Sun  "  dances,  and  other  barbarous 
functions  were  held.  In  the  days  of  the  Red  River  Jig, 
when  a  good  fiddler  of  the  same  was  held  to  be  a  man  of 
importance;  when  the  method  of  tuning  the  fiddle  to  the 
necessary  pitch  for  the  playing  of  that  curious  dance  was  a 
secret  known  only  to  a  privileged  few.  Some  might  call  them 
the  "  good  "  old  days.  "  Bad  "  is  the  adjective  which  best 
describes  that  period. 

When  Horrocks  and  his  men  set  out  for  the  Breed  camp 
they  had  discarded  their  police  clothes  and  were  clad  in  the 
uncouth  garb  of  the  half-breeds.  They  had  even  gone  to 
the  length  of  staining  their  faces  to  the  coppery  hue  of  the 
Indians.  They  were  a  ragged  party,  these  hardy  riders  of 
the  plains,  as  they  embarked  on  their  meditated  capture  of 
ithe  desperate  raider.  All  of  the  five  were  "  tough  "  men, 

188 


THE  PUSKY  189 

who  regarded  their  own  lives  lightly  enough  —  men  who 
had  seen  many  stirring  times,  and  whose  hairbreadth  escapes 
from  "  tight  "  corners  would  have  formed  a  lengthy  narrative 
in  themselves.  They  were  going  to  they  knew  not  what 
now,  but  they  did  not  shrink  from  the  undertaking.  Their 
leader  was  a  man  whose  daring  often  outweighed  his  caution, 
but,  as  they  well  knew,  he  was  endowed  with  a  reckless  man's 
luck,  and  they  would  sooner  follow  such  as  he  —  for  they 
were  sure  of  a  busy  time  —  than  work  with  one  of  his  more 
prudent  colleagues. 

At  the  half-breed  camp  was  considerable  bustle  and  ex- 
citement. The  activity  of  the  Breed  is  not  proverbial;  they 
are  at  best  a  lazy  lot,  but  now  men  and  women  came  and 
went  bristling  with  energy  to  their  finger  tips.  Preparations 
were  nearing  completion.  The  chief  item  of  importance 
was  the  whisky  supply,  and  this  the  treasurer,  Baptiste,  had 
made  his  personal  care.  A  barrel  of  the  vilest  "  rot-gut " 
that  was  ever  smuggled  into  prohibition  territory  had  been 
procured  and  carefully  secreted.  This  formed  the  chief  re- 
freshment, and,  doubtless,  the  "  bluestone  "  with  which  its 
fiery  contents  were  strengthened,  would  work  the  passionate 
natures,  on  which  it  was  to  play,  up  to  the  proper  crime- 
committing  pitch. 

The  orgie  was  to  be  held  in  a  barn  of  considerable  dimen- 
sions. It  was  a  ramshackle  affair,  reeking  of  old  age  and 
horses.  The  roof  was  decidedly  porous  in  places,  being  so 
lame  and  disjointed  that  the  starry  resplendence  of  the  sum- 
mer sky  was  plainly  visible  from  beneath  it. 

This,  however,  was  a  trifling  matter,  and  of  much  less 
consequence  than  the  question  of  space.  What  few  horse 
stalls  had  once  occupied  the  building  had  been  removed, 
and  the  mangers  alone  remained,  with  the  odor  of  horse, 
to  remind  the  guests  of  the  original  purpose  of  their  ball- 
room. A  careful  manipulation  of  dingy  Turkey  red,  and 
material  which  had  once  been  white,  struggled  vainly  to  hide 
these  mangers  from  view,  while  coarse,  rough  boards  which 
had  at  one  time  floored  some  of  the  stalls,  served  to  cover  in 


190     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  tops  and  convert  them  into  seats.  The  result  was  a 
triumph  of  characteristic  ingenuity.  The  barn  was  con- 
verted into  a  place  of  the  necessary  requirements,  but  ren- 
dered hideous  in  the  process. 

Next  came  the  disguising  of  the  rafters  and  "  collar- 
ties  "  of  the  building.  This  was  a  process  which  lent  itself 
to  the  curiously  warped  artistic  sense  of  the  benighted  peo- 
ple. Print  —  I  mean  cotton  rags  —  was  the  chief  idea  of 
decoration.  They  understood  these  stuffs.  They  were 
cheap  —  or,  at  least,  as  cheap  as  anything  sold  at  Lablache's 
store.  Besides,  print  decorated  the  persons  of  the  buxom 
Breed  women,  therefore  what  more  appropriate  than  such 
stuff  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  the  building.  Festoons  of 
print,  flags  of  print,  rosettes  of  print:  these  did  duty  for  the 
occasion.  The  staring  patterns  gleamed  on  every  beam,  or 
hung  in  bald  draping  almost  down  to  the  height  of  an 
ordinary  man's  head.  The  effect  was  strangely  reminiscent 
of  a  second-hand  clothes  shop,  and  helped  to  foster  the 
nauseating  scent  of  the  place. 

A  row  of  reeking  oil  lamps,  swinging  in  crazy  wire  swings, 
were  suspended  down  the  center  from  the  moldering  beams, 
and  in  the  diamond  window  spaces  were  set  a  number  of 
black  bottles,  the  neck  of  each  being  stuffed  with  a  tallow 
candle. 

One  corner  of  the  room  was  set  apart  for  the  fiddler,  and 
here  a  dai's  of  rough  boarding,  also  draped  in  print  stuff,  was 
erected  to  meet  the  requirements  of  that  honored  personage. 
Such  was  the  uncouth  place  where  the  Breeds  proposed  to 
hold  their  orgie.  And  of  its  class  it  was  an  excellent  ex- 
ample. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  barn  was  lit  up,  and  strangely  bizarre 
was  the  result.  The  draught  through  the  broken  windows 
set  the  candles  a-guttering,  until  rivers  of  yellow  fat  decorated 
the  black  bottles  in  which  they  were  set.  The  stench  from 
these,  and  from  the  badly-trimmed  coal  oil  lamps  down  the 
center,  blended  disgustingly  with  the  native  odor  of  the 
place,  until  the  atmosphere  became  heavy,  pungent,  revolting 


THE  PUSKY  191 

in  the  nostrils,  and  breathing  became  a  labor  after  the  sweet 
fresh  air  of  the  prairie  outside. 

Soon  after  this  the  dancers  began  to  arrive.  They  came 
in  their  strange  deckings  of  glaring  colors,  and  many  and 
varied  were  the  types  which  soon  filled  the  room.  There 
were  old  men  and  there  were  young  men.  There  were  girls 
in  their  early  teens,  and  toothless  hags,  decrepit  and  falter- 
ing. Faces  which,  in  wild  loveliness,  might  have  vied  with 
the  white  beauty  of  the  daughters  of  the  East.  Faces  seared 
and  crumpled  with  weight  of  years  and  nights  of  debauchery. 
Men  were  there  of  superb  physique,  whilst  others  crouched 
huddled,  with  shuffling  gait  towards  the  manger  seats,  to 
seek  rest  for  their  rotting  bones,  and  ease  for  their  cramping 
muscles. 

Many  of  the  faces  were  marred  by  disease;  small-pox  was 
a  prevalent  scourge  amongst  these  people.  The  effect  of 
the  pure  air  of  the  prairie  was  lost  upon  the  germ-laden 
atmosphere  which  surrounded  these  dreadful  camps.  Crime, 
too,  was  stamped  on  many  of  the  faces  of  those  gathering 
in  the  reeking  ballroom.  The  small  bullet  head  with  low, 
receding  forehead;  the  square  set  jaws  and  sagging  lips;  the 
shifty,  twinkling  little  eyes,  narrow-set  and  of  jetty  hue; 
such  faces  were  plentiful.  Nor  were  these  features  confined 
to  the  male  sex  alone.  Truly  it  was  a  motley  gathering,  and 
not  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

All,  as  they  came,  were  merry  with  anticipation;  even 
the  hags  and  the  rheumatism-ridden  male  fossils  croaked 
out  their  quips  and  coarse  pleasantries  to  each  other  with 
gleeful  unctuousness,  inspired  by  thoughts  of  the  generous 
contents  of  the  secreted  barrel.  Their  watery  eyes  watered 
the  more,  as,  on  entering  the  room,  they  glanced  round  seek- 
ing to  discover  the  fiery  store  of  liquor,  which  they  hoped 
to  help  to  dispose  of.  It  was  a  loathsome  sight  to  behold 
these  miserable  wretches  gathering  together  with  no  thought 
in  their  beast-like  brains  but  of  the  ample  food  and  drink 
which  they  intended  should  fall  to  their  share.  Crabbed 
old  age  seeking  rejuvenation  in  gut-burning  spirit. 


192     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  room  quickly  filled,  and  the  chattering  of  many 
and  strange  tongues  lent  an  apish  tone  to  the  function. 
The  French  half-breed  predominated,  and  these  spoke  their 
bastard  lingo  with  that  rapidity  and  bristling  elevation  of 
tone  which  characterizes  their  Gallic  relatives.  It  seemed 
as  though  each  were  trying  to  talk  his  neighbor  down,  and 
the  process  entailed  excited  shriekings  which  made  the  old 
barn  ring  again. 

Baptiste,  with  a  perfect  understanding  of  the  people, 
served  out  the  spirit  in  pannikins  with  a  lavish  hand.  It 
was  as  well  to  inspire  these  folk  with  the  potent  liquor  from 
the  start,  that  their  energies  might  be  fully  aroused  for  the 
dance. 

When  all,  men  and  women  alike,  had  partaken  of  an 
"eye-opener,"  Baptiste  gave  the  signal,  and  the  fiddler 
struck  up  his  plaintive  wail.  The  reedy  strings  of  his  in- 
strument shrieked  out  the  long-drawn  measure  of  a  miserable 
waltz,  the  company  paired  off,  and  the  dance  began. 

Whatever  else  may  be  the  failings  of  the  Breeds  they 
can  dance.  Dancing  is  as  much  a  part  of  their  nature  as 
is  the  turning  of  a  dog  twice  before  he  lies  down,  a  feature 
of  the  canine  race.  Those  who  were  physically  incapable 
of  dancing  lined  the  walls  and  adorned  the  manger  seats. 
For  the  rest,  they  occupied  the  sanded  floor,  and  danced 
until  the  dust  clouded  the  air  and  added  to  the  choking 
foulness  of  the  atmosphere. 

The  shrieking  fiddle  lured  this  savage  people,  and  its 
dreadful  tone  was  music  of  the  sweetest  to  their  listening 
ears.  This  was  a  people  who  would  dance.  They  would 
dance  so  long  as  they  could  stand. 

More  drink  followed  the  first  dance.  Baptiste  had  not 
yet  recognized  the  pitch  of  enthusiasm  which  must  promise 
a  successful  evening.  The  quantities  of  liquor  thus  devoured 
were  appalling.  The  zest  increased.  The  faces  wearing 
an  habitual  frown  displayed  a  budding  smile.  The  natural 
smiler  grinned  broadly.  All  warmed  to  the  evening's 
amusement. 


THE  PUSKY  193 

Now  came  the  festive  barn  dance.  The  moccasined 
feet  pounded  the  filthy  floor,  and  the  dust  gathered  thick 
round  the  gums  of  the  hard-breathing  dancers.  The  noise 
of  coarse  laughter  and  ribald  shoutings  increased.  All 
were  pleased  with  themselves,  but  more  pleased  still  with 
the  fiery  liquid  served  out  by  Baptiste.  The  scene  grew 
more  wild  as  time  crept  on,  and  the  effect  of  the  liquor 
made  itself  apparent.  The  fiddler  labored  cruelly  at  his 
wretched  instrument.  His  task  was  no  light  one,  but  he 
spared  himself  no  pains.  His  measure  must  be  even,  his 
tone  almost  unending  to  satisfy  his  countrymen.  He  under- 
stood them,  as  did  Baptiste.  To  fail  in  his  work  would 
mean  angry  protests  from  those  he  served,  and  angry  pro- 
tests amongst  the  Breeds  generally  took  the  form  of  a  shower 
of  leaden  bullets.  So  he  scraped  away  with  aching  limbs, 
and  with  heavy  foot  pounding  out  the  time  upon  the  crazy 
dais.  He  must  play  until  long  after  daylight,  until  his 
fingers  cramped,  and  his  old  eyes  would  remain  open  no 
longer. 

Peter  Retief  had  not  as  yet  put  in  an  appearance.  Hor- 
rocks  was  at  his  post  viewing  the  scene  from  outside  one  of 
the  broken  windows.  His  men  were  hard  by,  concealed  at 
certain  points  in  the  shelter  of  some  straggling  bush  which 
surrounded  the  stable.  Horrocks,  with  characteristic  en- 
ergy and  disregard  for  danger,  had  set  himself  the  task  of 
spying  out  the  land.  He  had  a  waiting  game  to  play,  but 
the  result  he  hoped  would  justify  his  action. 

The  scene  he  beheld  was  not  new  to  him,  his  duties  so 
often  carried  him  within  the  precincts  of  a  half-breed  camp. 
No  one  knew  the  Breeds  better  than  did  this  police  of- 
ficer. 

Time  passed.  Again  and  again  the  fiddle  ceased  its  ear- 
maddening  screams  as  refreshment  was  partaken  of  by  the 
dancers.  Wilder  and  wilder  grew  the  scene  as  the  potent 
liquor  took  hold  of  its  victims.  They  danced  with  more 
and  more  reckless  abandon  as  each  time  they  returned  to 
step  it  to  the  fiddler's  patient  measure.  Midnight  ap- 


194     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

preached  and  still  no  sign  of  Retief.  Horrocks  grew  restless 
and  impatient. 

Once  the  fiddle  ceased,  and  the  officer  watching  saw  all 
eyes  turn  to  the  principal  entrance  to  the  barn.  His  heart 
leapt  in  anticipation  as  he  gazed  in  the  direction.  Surely 
this  sudden  cessation  could  only  herald  the  coming  of  Re- 
tief. 

He  saw  the  door  open  as  he  craned  forward  to  look.  For 
the  moment  he  could  not  see  who  entered;  a  crowd  obscured 
his  view.  He  heard  a  cheer  and  a  clapping  of  hands,  and 
he  rejoiced.  Then  the  crowd  parted  and  he  saw  the  slim 
figure  of  a  girl  pass  down  the  center  of  the  reeking  den. 
She  was  clad  in  buckskin  shirt  and  dungaree  skirt.  At  the 
sight  he  muttered  a  curse.  The  newcomer  was  Jacky  Al- 
landale. 

He  watched  her  closely  as  she  moved  amongst  her  un- 
couth surroundings.  Her  beautiful  face  and  graceful  figure 
was  like  to  an  oasis  of  stately  flora  in  a  desert  of  trailing, 
vicious  brambles,  and  he  marveled  at  the  familiarity 
with  which  she  came  among  these  people.  Moreover,  he  be- 
came beset  with  misgivings  as  he  remembered  the  old  stories 
which  linked  this  girl's  name  with  that  of  Retief.  He  strug- 
gled to  fathom  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw,  but  the  real 
significance  of  her  coming  escaped  him. 

The  Breeds  once  more  returned  to  their  dancing,  and  all 
went  on  as  before.  Horrocks  followed  Jacky 's  movements 
with  his  eyes.  He  saw  her  standing  beside  a  toothless  old 
woman,  who  wagged  her  cunning,  aged  head  as  she  talked 
in  answer  to  the  girl's  questions.  Jacky  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing and  inquiring  for  some  one,  and  the  officer  wondered  if 
the  object  of  her  solicitude  was  Retief.  He  would  have  been 
surprised  had  he  known  that  she  was  inquiring  and  looking 
for  himself.  Presently  she  seated  herself  and  appeared  to  be 
absorbed  in  the  dance. 

The  drink  was  flowing  freely  now,  and  a  constant  demand 
was  being  made  upon  Baptiste.  Whilst  the  fiery  spirit 
scorched  down  the  hardened  throats,  strange,  weird  groans 


THE  PUSKY  195 

came  from  the  fiddler's  woeful  instrument.  The  old  man 
was  tuning  it  down  for  the  plaintive  requirements  of  the  Red 
River  Jig. 

The  dance  of  the  evening  was  about  to  begin.  Men  and 
women  primed  themselves  for  the  effort.  Each  was  eager 
to  outdo  his  or  her  neighbor  in  variety  of  steps  and  power  of 
endurance.  All  were  prepared  to  do  or  die.  The  mad  jig 
was  a  national  contest,  and  the  one  who  lasted  the  longest 
would  be  held  the  champion  dancer  of  the  district  —  a  cov- 
eted distinction  amongst  this  strange  people. 

At  last  the  music  began  again,  and  now  the  familiar 
"  Ragtime "  beat  fascinatingly  upon  the  air.  Those  who 
lined  the  walls  took  up  the  measure,  and,  with  foot  and  clap- 
ping hands,  marked  the  time  for  the  dancers.  Those  who 
competed  leapt  to  the  fray,  and  soon  the  reeking  room  became 
stifling  with  dust. 

The  fiddler's  time,  slow  at  the  commencement,  soon  grew 
faster,  and  the  dancers  shook  their  limbs  in  delighted  an- 
ticipation. Faster  and  faster  they  shuffled  and  jigged,  now 
opposite  to  partners,  now  round  each  other,  now  passing 
from  one  partner  to  another,  now  alone,  for  the  admiration 
of  the  onlookers.  Nor  was  there  pause  or  hesitation.  An 
instant's  pause  meant  dropping  out  of  that  mad  and  old 
time  "  hoe-down,"  and  each  coveted  the  distinction  of 
champion.  Faster  and  more  wildly  they  footed  it,  and  soon 
the  speed  caused  some  of  the  less  agile  to  drop  out.  It  was 
a  giddy  sight  to  watch,  and  the  strange  clapping  of  the 
spectators  was  not  the  least  curious  feature  of  the  scene. 

The  crowd  of  dancers  grew  thinner  as  the  fiddler,  with  a 
marvelous  display  of  latent  energy,  kept  ever-increasing  his 
speed. 

In  spite  of  himself  Horrocks  became  fascinated.  There 
was  something  so  barbarous  —  heathenish  —  in  what  he  be- 
held. The  minutes  flew  by,  and  the  dance  was  rapidly 
nearing  its  height.  More  couples  fell  out,  dead  beat  and 
gasping,  but  still  there  remained  a  number  who  would  fight 
it  out  to  the  bitter  end.  The  streaming  faces  and  gaping  lips 


196     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

of  those  yet  remaining  told  of  the  dreadful  strain.  Another 
couple  dropped  out,  the  woman  actually  falling  with  ex- 
haustion. She  was  dragged  aside  and  left  unnoticed  in  the 
wild  excitement.  Now  were  only  three  pairs  left  in  the 
center  of  the  floor. 

The  police-officer  found  himself  speculating  as  to  which 
would  be  the  winner  of  the  contest. 

"  That  brown-faced  wench,  with  the  flaming  red  dress,  '11 
do  'em  all,"  he  said  to  himself.  The  woman  he  was  watch- 
ing had  a  young  Breed  of  great  agility  for  her  vis-a-vis. 
"  She  or  her  partner  '11  do  it,"  he  went  on,  almost  audibly. 
"  Good,"  he  was  becoming  enthusiastic,  "  there's  another 
couple  done,"  as  two  more  suddenly  departed,  and  flung 
themselves  on  the  ground  exhausted.  "  Yes,  they'll  do  it  — 
crums,  but  there  goes  her  partner!  Keep  it  up,  girl  —  keep 
it  up.  The  others  won't  be  long.  Stay  with  — " 

He  broke  off  in  alarm  as  he  felt  his  arm  suddenly  clutched 
from  behind.  Simultaneously  he  felt  heavy  breathing  blow- 
ing upon  his  cheek.  Quick  as  a  flash  his  revolver  was 
whipped  out  and  he  swung  round. 

"  Easy,  sergeant,"  said  the  voice  of  one  of  his  troopers. 
"  For  Gawd's  sake  don't  shoot.  Say,  Retief 's  down  at  the 
settlement.  A  messenger's  jest  come  up  to  say  he's  '  hustled  ' 
all  our  horses  from  Lablache's  stable,  and  the  old  man  him- 
self's  in  trouble.  Come  over  to  that  bluff  yonder,  the  mes- 
senger's there.  He's  one  of  Lablache's  clerks." 

The  police-officer  was  dumbfounded,  and  permitted  him- 
self to  be  conducted  to  the  bluff  without  a  word.  He  was 
wondering  if  he  were  dreaming,  so  sudden  and  unexpected 
was  the  announcement  of  the  disaster. 

When  he  halted  at  the  bluff,  the  clerk  was  still  discussing 
the  affair  with  one  of  the  troopers.  As  yet  the  other  two 
were  in  their  places  of  concealment,  and  were  in  ignorance 
of  what  had  happened. 

"  It's  dead  right,"  the  clerk  said,  in  answer  to  Horrocks's 
sharply-put  inquiry.  "  I'd  been  in  bed  sometime  when  I 
was  awakened  by  a  terrible  racket  going  on  in  the  office. 


THE  PUSKY  197 

It's  just  under  the  room  I  sleep  in.  Well,  I  hopped  out  of 
bed  and  slipped  on  some  clothes,  and  went  downstairs,  think- 
ing the  governor  had  been  taken  with  a  fit  or  something. 
When  I  got  down  the  office  was  in  darkness,  and  quiet  as 
death.  I  went  cautiously  to  work,  for  I  was  a  bit  scared. 
Striking  a  light  I  made  my  way  in,  expecting  to  find  the 
governor  laid  out,  but,  instead,  I  found  the  furniture  all 
chucked  about  and  the  room  empty.  It  wasn't  two  shakes 
before  I  lit  upon  this  sheet  of  paper.  It  was  lying  on  the 
desk.  The  governor's  writing  is  unmistakable.  You  can 
see  for  yourself;  here  it  is — " 

Horrocks  took  the  sheet,  and,  by  the  light  of  a  match 
read  the  scrawl  upon  it.  The  writing  had  evidently  been 
done  in  haste,  but  its  meaning  was  clear. 

"  Retief  is  here,"  it  ran.  "  I  am  a  prisoner.  Follow  up 
with  all  speed.  LABLACHE." 

After  reading,  Horrocks  turned  to  the  clerk,  who  immedi- 
ately went  on  with  his  story. 

"  Well,  I  just  bolted  out  to  the  stables  intending  to  take 
a  horse  and  go  over  to  *  Poker '  John's.  But  when  I  got 
there  I  found  the  doors  open,  an'  every  blessed  horse  gone. 
Yes,  your  horses  as  well  —  and  the  governor's  buckboard 
too.  I  jest  had  a  look  round,  saw  that  the  team  harness 
had  gone  with  the  rest,  then  I  ran  as  hard  as  I  could  pelt 
to  the  Foss  River  Ranch.  I  found  old  John  up,  but  he'd 
been  drinking,  so,  after  a  bit  of  talk,  I  learned  from  him 
where  you  were  and  came  right  along.  That's  all,  sergeant, 
and  bad  enough  it  is  too.  I'm  afraid  they'll  string  the 
governor  up.  He  ain't  too  popular,  you  know." 

The  clerk  finished  up  his  breathless  narrative  in  a  way 
that  left  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  his  hearers  as  to  his 
sincerity.  He  was  trembling  with  nervous  excitement  still. 
And  even  in  the  starlight  the  look  upon  his  face  spoke  of 
real  concern  for  his  master. 

For   some   seconds  the  officer  did   not   reply.     He  was 


198      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

thinking  rapidly.  To  say  that  he  was  chagrined  would 
hardly  convey  his  feelings.  He  had  been  done  —  outwitted 
—  and  he  knew  it.  Done  —  like  the  veriest  tenderfoot. 
He,  an  officer  of  wide  experience  and  of  considerable  repu- 
tation. And  worst  of  all  he  remembered  Lablache's  warn- 
ing. He,  the  money-lender,  had  been  more  far-seeing  — 
had  understood  something  of  the  trap  which  he,  Horrocks, 
had  plunged  headlong  into.  The  thought  was  as  worm- 
wood to  the  prairie  man,  and  helped  to  cloud  his  judgment 
as  he  now  sought  for  the  best  course  to  adopt.  He  saw  now 
with  bitter,  mental  self-reviling,  how  the  story  that  Gautier 
had  told  him  —  and  for  which  he  had  paid  —  and  which 
had  been  corroborated  by  the  conversation  he  had  heard  in 
the  camp,  had  been  carefully  prepared  by  the  wily  Retief; 
and  how  he,  like  a  hungry,  simple  fish,  had  deliberately 
risen  and  devoured  the  bait.  He  was  maddened  by  the 
thought,  too,  that  the  money-lender  had  been  right  and  he 
wrong,  and  took  but  slight  solace  from  the  fact  that  the 
chief  disaster  had  overtaken  that  great  man. 

However,  it  was  plain  that  something  must  be  done  at 
once  to  assist  Lablache,  and  he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for 
the  best  means  to  secure  the  money-lender's  release.  In  his 
dilemma  a  recollection  came  to  him  of  the  presence  of  Jacky 
Allandale  in  the  barn,  and  a  feeling  nearly  akin  to  revenge 
came  to  him.  He  felt  that  in  some  way  this  girl  was  con- 
nected with,  and  knew  of,  the  doings  of  Retief. 

With  a  hurried  order  to  remain  where  they  were  to  his 
men  he  returned  to  his  station  at  the  window  of  the  barn. 
He  looked  in,  searching  for  the  familiar  figure  of  the  girl. 
Dancing  had  ceased,  and  the  howling  Breeds  were  drinking 
heavily.  Jacky  was  no  longer  to  be  seen,  and,  with  bitter 
disappointment,  he  turned  again  to  rejoin  his  companions. 
There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  hasten  to  the  settle- 
ment and  procure  fresh  horses. 

He  had  hardly  turned  from  the  window  when  several 
shots  rang  out  on  the  night  air.  They  came  from  the 
direction  in  which  he  was  moving.  Instantly  he  compre- 


THE  PUSKY  199 

bended  that  an  attack  was  being  made  upon  his  troopers. 
He  drew  his  pistol  and  dashed  forward  at  a  run.  Three 
paces  sufficed  to  terminate  his  race.  Silence  had  followed 
the  firing  of  the  shots  he  had  heard.  Suddenly  his  quick 
ears  detected  the  hiss  of  a  lariat  whistling  through  the  air. 
He  spread  out  his  arms  to  ward  it  off.  He  felt  something* 
fall  upon  them.  He  tried  to  throw  it  off,  and,  the  next 
instant  the  rope  jerked  tight  round  his  throat,  and  he  was 
hurled,  choking,  backwards  upon  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR 

LABLACHE  was  alone  in  his  office.  He  was  more  alone  than 
he  had  ever  been  in  his  life;  or,  at  least,  he  felt  more 
alone  —  which  amounted  to  much  the  same  thing.  Possibly, 
had  he  been  questioned  on  the  subject,  he  would  have 
pooh-poohed  the  idea,  but,  nevertheless,  in  his  secret  heart 
he  felt  that,  in  spite  of  his  vast  wealth,  he  was  a  lonely 
man.  He  knew  that  he  had  not  a  single  friend  in  Foss 
River;  and  in  Calford,  another  center  of  his  great  wealth, 
things  were  no  better.  His  methods  of  business,  whilst 
they  brought  him  many  familiar  acquaintances  —  a  large 
circle  of  people  who  were  willing  to  trade,  repelled  all  ap- 
proach to  friendship.  Besides,  his  personality  was  against 
him.  His  flinty  disposition  and  unscrupulous  love  of  power 
were  all  detrimental  to  human  affection. 

As  a  rule,  metaphorically  speaking,  he  snapped  his  fingers 
at  these  things.  Moreover,  he  was  glad  that  such  was  the 
case;  he  could  the  more  freely  indulge  his  passion  for  grab. 
Hated,  he  could  work  out  his  peculiar  schemes  without 
qualms  of  conscience;  loved,  it  would  have  been  otherwise. 
Yes,  Lablache  preferred  this  social  ostracism. 

But  the  great  money-lender  had  his  moments  of  weak- 
ness—  moments  when  he  rebelled  against  his  solitary  lot. 
He  knew  that  his  isolated  position  had  been  brought  about 
by  himself  —  fostered  by  himself,  and  he  knew  he  pre- 
ferred that  it  should  be  so.  But,  nevertheless,  at  times  he 
felt  very  lonely,  and  in  these  moments  of  weakness  he 
wondered  if  he  obtained  full  consolation  in  his  great  wealth 
for  his  marooned  position.  Generally  the  result  of  these 
reflections  brought  him  satisfaction.  How?  is  a  question. 

200 


LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR  201 

Possibly  he  forced  himself,  by  that  headstrong  power  with 
which  he  bent  others  who  came  into  contact  with  him  to 
his  will,  to  such  a  conclusion.  Lablache  was  certainly  a 
triumph  of  relentless  purpose  over  flesh  and  feelings. 

Lablache  was  nearly  fifty,  and  had  lived  alone  since  he 
was  in  his  teens.  Now  he  pined,  as  all  who  live  a  solitary 
life  must  some  day  pine,  for  a  companion  to  share  his 
loneliness.  He  craved  not  for  the  society  of  his  own  sex. 
With  the  instinct  in  us  all  he  wanted  a  mate  to  share  with 
him  his  golden  nest.  But  this  mass  of  iron  nerve  and 
obesity  was  not  as  other  men.  He  did  not  weakly  crave, 
and  then,  with  his  wealth,  set  out  to  secure  a  wife  who 
could  raise  him  in  the  social  scale,  or  add  to  the  bags  which 
he  had  watched  grow  in  bulk  from  flattened  folds  of  sacking 
to  the  distended  proportions  of  miniature  balloons.  No, 
he  desired  a  girl,  the  only  relation  of  a  man  whom  he  had 
helped  to  ruin  —  a  girl  who  could  bring  him  no  social 
distinction,  and  who  could  not  add  one  penny  piece  to  his 
already  enormous  wealth.  Moreover,  strangely  enough,  he 
had  conceived  for  her  a  passion  which  was  absolutely  un- 
holy in  its  intensity.  It  is  needless,  then,  to  add,  when 
speaking  of  such  a  man,  that,  willing  or  not,  he  intended 
that  Jacky  Allandale  should  be  his. 

Thoughts  of  this  wild,  quarter-breed  girl  filled  his  brain 
as  he  sat  solitary  in  his  little  office  on  the  night  of  the 
pusky.  He  sat  in  his  favorite  chair,  in  his  favorite  posi- 
tion. He  was  lounging  back  with  his  slippered  feet  resting 
on  the  burnished  steel  foot-rests  of  the  stove.  There  was 
no  fire  in  the  stove,  of  course,  but  from  force  of  habit  he 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  mica  sides  which  surrounded  the 
firebox.  Probably  in  this  position  he  had  thought  out  some 
of  his  most  dastardly  financial  schemes  and  therefore  most 
suitable  it  seemed  now  as  he  calculated  his  chances  of  cap- 
turing the  wild  prairie  girl  for  his  mate. 

He  had  given  up  all  thoughts  of  ever  obtaining  her  willing 
consent,  and,  although  his  vanity  had  been  hurt  by  her 
rejection  of  his  advances,  still  he  was  not  the  man  to  be 


202      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

easily  thwarted.  His  fertile  brain  had  evolved  a  means  by 
which  to  achieve  his  end,  and,  to  his  scheme-loving  nature, 
the  process  was  anything  but  distasteful.  He  had  always, 
from  the  first  moment  he  had  decided  to  make  Jacky  Allan- 
dale  his  wife,  been  prepared  for  such  a  contingency  as  her 
refusal,  and  had  never  missed  an  opportunity  of  ensnaring 
her  uncle  in  his  financial  toils.  He  had  understood  the 
old  man's  weakness,  and,  with  satanic  cunning,  had  set 
himself  to  the  task  of  wholesale  robbery,  with  crushing 
results  to  his  victim.  This  had  given  him  the  necessary 
power  to  further  prosecute  his  suit.  As  yet  he  had  not 
displayed  his  hand.  He  felt  that  the  time  was  barely  ripe. 
Before  putting  the  screw  on  the  Allandales  it  had  been  his 
object  to  rid  the  place,  and  his  path,  of  his  only  stumbling 
block.  In  this  he  had  not  quite  succeeded  as  we  have  seen. 
He  quite  understood  that  the  Hon.  Bunning-Ford  must  be 
removed  from  Foss  River  first.  Whilst  he  was  on  hand 
Jacky  would  be  difficult  to  coerce.  Instinctively  he  knew 
that  "  Lord  "  Bill  was  her  lover,  and,  with  him  at  hand  to 
advise  her,  Jacky  would  hold  out  to  the  last.  However,  he 
believed  that  in  the  end  he  must  conquer.  Bunning-Ford's 
resources  were  very  limited  he  knew,  and  soon  his  hated 
rival  must  leave  the  settlement  and  seek  pastures  new.  La- 
blache  was  but  a  clever  scheming  mortal.  He  did  not  credit 
others  with  brains  of  equal  caliber,  much  less  cleverer  and 
more  resourceful  than  his  own.  It  had  been  better  for  him 
had  his  own  success  in  life  been  less  assured,  for  then 
he  would  have  been 'more  doubtful  of  his  own  ability  to 
do  as  he  wished,  and  he  would  have  given  his  adversaries 
credit  for  a  cleverness  which  he  now  considered  as  only 
his. 

After  some  time  spent  in  surveying  and  considering  his 
plans  his  thoughts  reverted  to  other  matters.  This  was  the 
night  of  the  half-breed  pusky.  His  great  face  contorted 
into  a  sarcastic  smile  as  he  thought  of  Sergeant  Horrocks. 
He  remembered  with  vivid  acuteness  every  incident  of  his 
interview  with  the  officer  two  nights  ago.  He  bore  the  man 


LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR          203 

no  malice  now  for  the  contradiction  of  himself,  for  the 
reason  that  he  was  sure  his  own  beliefs  on  the  subject  of 
Retief  would  be  amply  realized.  His  lashless  eyes  quivered 
as  his  thoughts  invoked  an  inward  mirth.  No  one  realized 
more  fully  than  did  this  man  the  duplicity  and  cunning  of 
the  Breed.  He  anticipated  a  great  triumph  over  Horrocks 
the  next  time  he  saw  him. 

As  the  time  passed  on  he  became  more  himself.  His 
loneliness  did  not  strike  him  so  keenly.  He  felt  that  after 
all  there  was  great  satisfaction  to  be  drawn  from  a  watcher's 
observance  of  men.  Isolated  as  he  was  he  was  enabled  to 
look  on  men  and  things  more  critically  than  he  otherwise 
would  be. 

He  reached  over  to  his  tobacco  jar,  which  stood  upon 
his  desk,  and  leisurely  proceeded  to  fill  his  pipe.  It  was 
rarely  he  indulged  himself  in  an  idle  evening,  but  to-night 
he  somehow  felt  that  idleness  would  be  good.  He  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  weight  of  his  years. 

He  lit  his  heavy  briar  and  proceeded  to  envelop  himself 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  He  gasped  out  a  great  sigh  of  satis- 
faction, and  his  leathery  eyelids  half  closed.  Presently  a 
gentle  tap  came  at  the  glass  door,  which  partitioned  off  the 
office  from  the  store.  Lablache  called  out  a  guttural  "  Come 
in,"  at  the  same  time  glancing  at  the  loud  ticking  "  alarm  " 
on  the  desk.  He  knew  who  his  visitor  was. 

One  of  the  clerks  opened  the  door. 

"  It  is  past  ten,  sir,  shall  I  close  up?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  close  up.     Whose  evening  off  is  it?  " 

"  Rodgers,  sir.  He  is  still  out.  He'll  be  in  before  mid- 
night, sir." 

"  Ah,  down  at  the  saloon,  I  expect,"  said  Lablache,  drily. 
"Well,  bolt  the  front  door.  Just  leave  it  on  the  spring 
latch.  I  shall  be  up  until  he  comes  in.  What  are  you 
two  boys  going  to  do?  " 

"  Going  to  bed,  sir." 

"All  right;  good-night." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 


204     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  door  closed  quietly  after  the  clerk,  and  Lablache 
heard  his  two  assistants  close  up  the  store  and  then  go  up- 
stairs to  their  rooms.  The  money-lender  was  served  well. 
His  employees  in  the  store  had  been  with  him  for  years. 
They  were  worked  very  hard  and  their  pay  was  not  great, 
but  their  money  was  sure,  and  their  employment  was  all 
the  year  round.  So  many  billets  upon  the  prairie  depended 
upon  the  seasons  —  opulence  one  month  and  idleness  the 
next.  On  the  ranches  it  was  often  worse.  There  is  but 
little  labor  needed  in  the  winter.  And  those  who  have  the 
good  fortune  to  be  employed  all  the  year  round  generally 
experience  a  reduction  in  wages  at  the  end  of  the  fall 
round-up,  and  find  themselves  doing  the  "  chores  "  when 
winter  comes  on. 

After  the  departure  of  the  clerk  Lablache  re-settled  him- 
self and  went  on  smoking  placidly.  The  minutes  ticked 
slowly  away.  An  occasional  groan  from  the  long-suffering 
basket  chair,  and  the  wreathing  clouds  of  smoke  were  the 
only  appreciable  indication  of  life  in  that  little  room.  By- 
and-by  the  great  man  reached  a  memorandum  tablet  from 
his  desk  and  dotted  down  a  few  hurried  figures.  Then  he 
breathed  a  great  sigh,  and  his  face  wore  a  look  of  satis- 
faction. There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  tenor  of  his 
thoughts.  Money,  money.  It  was  as  life  to  him. 

The  distant  rattle  of  the  spring  lock  of  the  store  front 
door  being  snapped-to  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  office. 
Lablache  heard  the  sound.  Then  followed  the  bolting  of 
the  door.  The  money-lender  turned  again  to  his  figures. 
It  was  the  return  of  Rodgers,  he  thought,  which  had  dis- 
turbed him.  He  soon  became  buried  in  further  calcula- 
tions. While  figuring  he  unconsciously  listened  for  the 
sound  of  the  clerk's  footsteps  on  the  stairs  as  he  made  his 
way  up  to  his  room.  The  sound  did  not  come.  The  room 
was  clouded  with  tobacco  smoke,  and  still  Lablache  belched 
out  fresh  clouds  to  augment  the  reek  of  the  atmosphere. 
Suddenly  the  glass  door  opened.  The  money-lender  heard 
the  handle  move. 


LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR          205 

"  Eh,  what  is  it,  Rodgers?  "  he  said,  in  a  displeased  tone. 
As  he  spoke  he  peered  through  the  smoke. 

"What  d'you  want?"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  Then  he 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  craned  forward  only  to  fall  back  again 
with  a  muttered  curse.  He  had  stared  into  the  muzzle  of 
a  heavy  six-shooter. 

He  moved  his  hand  as  though  to  throw  his  memorandum 
pad  on  the  desk,  but  instantly  a  stern  voice  ordered  him  to 
desist  and  the  threatening  revolver  came  closer. 

"  Jest  stay  right  thar,  pard."  The  words  were  spoken  in 
an  exaggerated  Western  drawl.  "  My  barker's  mighty  light 
in  the  trigger.  I  guess  it  don't  take  a  hundred-weight  to 
loose  it.  And  I  don't  cotton  to  mucking  up  this  floor  with 
yer  vitals." 

Lablache  remained  still.  He  saw  before  him  the  tall 
thin  figure  of  a  half-breed.  He  had  black  lank  hair  which 
hung  loosely  down  almost  on  to  his  shoulders.  His  face 
was  the  color  of  mud,  and  he  was  possessed  of  a  pair  of 
keen  gray  eyes  and  a  thin-hooked  nose.  His  face  wore  a 
lofty  look  of  command,  and  was  stamped  by  an  expression 
of  the  unmost  resolution.  He  spoke  easily  and  showed  not 
the  smallest  haste. 

"  Guess  we  ain't  met  before,  boss  —  not  familiar-like, 
leastways.  My  name's  Retief  —  Peter  Retief,  an*  I  take  it 
yours  is  Lablache.  Now  I've  jest  come  right  along  to  do 
biz  with  you  —  how  does  that  fit  your  bowels  ?  " 

The  compelling  ring  of  metal  faced  the  astonished  money- 
lender. For  the  moment  he  remained  speechless. 

"Wai?"  drawled  the  other,  with  elaborate  significance. 

Lablache  struggled  for  words.  His  astonishment  —  dis- 
may made  the  effort  a  difficult  one. 

"  You've  got  the  drop  on  me  you  —  you  damned 
scoundrel,"  he  at  last  burst  out,  his  face  for  the  moment 
purpling  with  rage.  "  I'm  forced  to  listen  to  you  now,"  he 
went  on  more  gutturally,  as  the  paroxysm  having  found  vent 
began  to  pass,  "  but  watch  yourself  that  you  make  no  bad 
reckoning,  or  you'll  regret  this  business  until  the  rope's 


206      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

round  your  neck.  You'll  get  nothing  out  of  me  —  but  what 
you  take.  Now  then,  be  sharp.  What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

The  half-breed  grinned. 

"  You're  mighty  raw  on  the  hide  jest  now,  I  guess.  But 
see  hyar,  my  reckonin's  are  nigh  as  slick  as  yours.  An' 
jest  slant  yer  tongue  some.  *  Damned  scoundrel '  sliden' 
from  yer  flannel  face  is  like  a  coyote  roundin'  on  a  timber 
wolf,  an'  a  coyote  ain't  as  low  down  as  a  skunk.  I  opine 
I  want  a  deal  from  you,"  Retief  went  on,  with  a  hollow 
laugh,  "  and  wot  I  want  I  mostly  git,  in  these  parts." 

Lablache  was  no  coward.  And  even  now  he  had  not 
the  smallest  fear  for  his  life.  But  the  thought  of  being 
bluffed  by  the  very  man  he  was  willing  to  pay  so  much  for 
the  capture  of  riled  him  almost  beyond  endurance.  The 
Breed  noted  the  effect  of  his  words  and  pushed  his  pistol 
almost  to  within  arm's  reach  of  the  money-lender's  face. 

The  half-breed's  face  suddenly  became  stern. 

"  That's  a  dandy  ranch  of  yours  down  south.  Me  an' 
my  pards  'ave  taken  a  notion  to  it.  Say,  you're  comin' 
right  along  with  us.  Savee?  Guess  we'll  show  you  the 
slickest  round  up  this  side  o'  the  border.  Now  jest  sit 
right  thar  while  I  let  my  mates  in." 

Retief  took  no  chances.  Lablache,  under  pistol  com- 
pulsion, was  forced  to  remain  motionless  in  his  chair.  The 
swarthy  Breed  backed  cautiously  to  the  door  until  his  hand 
rested  upon  the  spring  catch.  This,  with  deft  fingers,  he 
turned  and  then  forced  back,  and  the  next  moment  he  was 
joined  by  two  companions  as  dark  as  himself  and  likewise 
dressed  in  the  picturesque  garb  of  the  prairie  "  hustler." 
The  money-lender,  in  spite  of  his  predicament,  was  keenly 
alert,  and  lost  no  detail  of  the  new-comers'  appearance.  He 
took  a  careful  mental  photograph  of  each  of  the  men,  trust- 
ing that  he  might  find  the  same  useful  in  the  future.  He 
wondered  what  the  next  move  would  be.  He  eyed  the 
Breed's  pistol  furtively,  and  thought  of  his  own  weapon 
lying  on  his  desk  at  the  corner  farthest  from  him.  He 


LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR          207 

knew  there  was  no  possible  chance  of  reaching  it.  The 
slightest  unbidden  move  on  his  part  would  mean  instant 
death.  He  understood,  only  too  well,  how  lightly  human 
life  was  held  by  these  people.  Implicit  obedience  alone 
could  save  him.  In  those  few  thrilling  moments  he  had  still 
time  to  realize  the  clever  way  in  which  both  he  and  Hor- 
rocks  had  been  duped.  He  had  never  for  a  moment  be- 
lieved in  Gautier's  story,  but  had  still  less  dreamed  of  such 
a  daring  outrage  as  was  now  being  perpetrated.  He  had 
not  long  to  wait  for  developments.  Directly  the  two  men 
were  inside,  and  the  door  was  again  closed,  Retief  pointed 
to  the  money-lender. 

"  Hustle,  boys  —  the  rope.    Lash  his  feet." 

One  of  the  men  produced  an  old  lariat.  In  a  trice  the 
great  man's  feet  were  fast. 

"  His  hands?  "  said  one  of  the  men. 

"  Guess  not.     He's  goin'  to  write,  some." 

Lablache  instantly  thought  of  his  cheque-book.  But 
Retief  had  no  fancy  for  what  he  considered  was  useless 
paper. 

The  hustler  stepped  over  to  the  desk.  His  keen  eyes 
spotted  the  money-lender's  pistol  lying  upon  the  far  corner 
of  it.  He  had  also  noted  his  prisoner  casting  furtive  glances 
in  the  direction  of  it.  To  prevent  any  mischance  he  picked 
the  gleaming  weapon  up  and  slipped  it  into  his  hip  pocket. 
After  that  he  drew  a  sheet  of  foolscap  from  the  stationery 
case  and  laid  it  on  the  blotting  pad.  Then  he  turned  to 
his  comrades. 

"  Jest  help  old  money-bags  over,"  he  said  quietly.  He 
was  thoroughly  alert,  and  as  calmly  indifferent  to  the  danger 
of  discovery  as  if  he  were  engaged  on  the  most  righteous 
work. 

When  Lablache  had  been  hoisted  and  pushed  into  posi- 
tion at  the  desk  the  raider  took  up  a  pen  and  held  it  out 
towards  him. 

"  Write,"  he  said  laconically. 

Lablache  hesitated.     He  looked  from  the  pen  to  the  man's 


208     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

leveled   pistol.     Then   he   reluctantly   took  the   pen.     The 
half-breed   promptly   dictated,   and   the  other   wrote.     The 
compulsion  was  exasperating,  and  the  great  man  scrawled 
with  all  the  pettishness  of  a  child. 
The  message  read  — 

"  Retief  is  here.  I  am  a  prisoner.  Follow  up  with  all 
speed.'' 

"Now  sign,"  said  the  Breed,  when  the  message  was 
written. 

Lablache  signed  and  flung  down  the  pen. 

"What's  that  for?"  he  demanded  huskily. 

"For?"  His  captor  shrugged.  "I  guess  them  gophers 
of  police  are  snugly  trussed  by  now.  Mebbe,  though,  one 
o'  them  might  'a'  got  clear  away.  When  they  find  you're 
gone,  they'll  light  on  that  paper.  I  jest  want  'em  to  come 
right  along  after  us.  Savee?  It'll  'most  surprise  'em  when 
they  come  along."  Then  he  turned  to  his  men.  "  Now, 
boys,  lash  his  hands,  and  cut  his  feet  adrift.  Then,  into 
the  buckboard  with  him.  Guess  his  carcase  is  too  bulky  for 
any  *  plug '  to  carry.  Get  a  hustle  on,  lads.  We've  hung 
around  here  long  enough." 

The  men  stepped  forward  to  obey  their  chief,  but,  at 
that  moment,  Lablache  gave  another  display  of  that  won- 
derful agility  of  his  of  which,  at  times,  he  was  capable. 
His  rage  got  the  better  of  him,  and  even  under  the  muzzle 
of  his  captor's  pistol  he  was  determined  to  resist.  We  have 
said  that  the  money-lender  was  no  coward;  at  that  moment 
he  was  desperate. 

The  nearest  Breed  received  a  terrific  buffet  in  the  neck, 
then,  in  spite  of  his  bound  feet,  Lablache  seized  his  heavy 
swivel  chair,  and,  raising  it  with  all  his  strength  he  hurled 
it  at  the  other.  Still  Retief's  pistol  was  silent.  The  money- 
lender noticed  the  fact,  and  he  became  even  more  assured. 
He  turned  heavily  and  aimed  a  blow  at  the  "  hustler." 
But,  even  as  he  struck,  he  felt  the  weight  of  Retief's  hand, 


LABLACHE'S  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR  209 

and  struggling  to  steady  himself  —  his  bound  feet  impeding 
him  —  he  overbalanced  and  fell  heavily  to  the  ground.  In 
an  instant  the  Breeds  were  upon  him.  His  own  handker- 
chief was  used  to  gag  him,  and  his  hands  were  secured. 
Then,  without  a  moment's  delay,  he  was  hoisted  from  the 
floor  —  his  great  weight  bearing  his  captors  down  —  and 
carried  bodily  out  of  the  office  and  thrown  into  his  own 
buckboard,  which  was  waiting  at  the  door.  Retief  sprang 
into  the  driving  seat  whilst  one  of  the  Breeds  held  the 
prisoner  down,  some  other  dark  figures  leapt  into  the  sad- 
dles of  several  waiting  horses,  and  the  party  dashed  off  at 
a  breakneck  speed. 

The  gleaming  stars  gave  out  more  than  sufficient  light 
for  the  desperate  teamster.  He  swung  the  well-fed,  high- 
mettled  horses  of  the  money-lender  round,  and  headed  right 
through  the  heart  of  the  settlement.  The  audacity  of  this 
man  was  superlative.  He  lashed  the  animals  into  a  gallop 
which  made  the  saddle  horses  extend  themselves  to  keep  up. 
On,  on  into  the  night  they  raced,  and  almost  in  a  flash  the 
settlement  was  passed.  The  sleepy  inhabitants  of  Foss 
River  heard  the  mad  racing  of  the  horses  but  paid  no  heed. 
The  daring  of  the  raider  was  his  safeguard. 

Lablache  knew  their  destination.  They  were  traveling 
southward,  and  he  felt  that  their  object  was  his  own  ranch. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A    NIGHT   OF    TERROR 

THAT  midnight  drive  was  one  long  nightmare  to  the  un- 
fortunate captive.  He  had  been  thrown,  sprawling,  into  the 
iron-railed  "  carryall "  platform  at  the  back  of  the  buck- 
board,  and  lay  on  the  nut-studded  slats,  where  he  was  jolted 
and  bumped  about  like  the  proverbial  pea  on  a  drum. 

When  the  raider  changed  his  direction,  and  turned  off 
the  trail  on  to  the  open  prairie,  the  horrors  of  the  prisoner's 
position  were  intensified  a  hundredfold.  Alone,  there  was 
insufficient  room  for  the  suffering  man  in  the  limited  space 
of  the  "  carryall,"  but  beside  him  sat,  or  rather  crouched,  a 
burly  Breed,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  quash  any  at- 
tempt at  escape  on  the  part  of  the  wretched  money-lender. 

Thus  he  was  borne  along,  mile  after  mile,  southward 
towards  his  own  ranch.  Sometimes  during  that  terrible  ride 
Lablache  found  time  to  wonder  what  was  the  object  of  these 
people  in  thus  kidnapping  him.  Surely  if  they  only  meant 
to  carry  off  his  cattle,  such  a  task  could  have  been  done 
without  bringing  him  along  with  them.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  could  be  only  one  interpretation  put  upon  the 
matter,  and,  in  spite  of  his  present  agonies,  the  great  man 
shuddered  as  he  thought. 

Courageous  as  he  was,  he  endured  a  period  of  mental 
agony  which  took  all  the  heart  out  of  him.  He  understood 
the  methods  of  the  prairie  so  well  that  he  feared  the  very 
worst.  A  tree  —  a  lariat  —  and  he  saw,  in  fancy,  a  crowd 
of  carrion  swarming  round  his  swinging  body.  He  could 
conceive  no  other  object,  and  his  nerves  became  racked  almost 
to  breaking  pitch. 

The  real  truth  of  the  situation  was  beyond  his  wildest 

210 


A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR  211 

dreams.  The  significance  of  the  fact  that  this  second  attack 
was  made  against  him  was  lost  upon  the  wretched  man. 
He  only  seemed  to  realize  with  natural  dread  that  Retief  — 
the  terror  of  the  countryside  —  was  in  this,  therefore  the 
outcome  must  surely  be  the  very  worst 

At  length  the  horses  drew  up  at  Lablache's  lonely  ranch. 
His  nearest  neighbor  was  not  within  ten  miles  of  him. 
With  that  love  of  power  and  self  aggrandisement  which 
always  characterized  him,  the  money-lender  had  purchased 
from  the  Government  a  vast  tract  of  country,  and  retained 
every  acre  of  it  for  his  own  stock.  It  might  have  stood  him 
in  good  stead  now  had  he  let  portions  of  his  grazing,  and  so 
settled  up  the  district.  As  it  was,  his  ranch  was  character- 
istic of  himself  —  isolated;  and  he  knew  that  Retief  could 
here  work  his  will  with  little  chance  of  interference. 

As  Lablache  was  hoisted  from  the  buckboard  and  set 
upon  his  feet,  and  the  gag  was  removed  from  his  mouth, 
the  first  thing  he  noticed  was  the  absolute  quiescence  of  the 
place.  He  wondered  if  his  foreman  and  the  hands  were 
yet  sleeping. 

He  was  not  long  left  in  doubt.  Retief  gave  a  few  rapid 
orders  to  his  men,  and  as  he  did  so  Lablache  observed,  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  Breeds  numbered  at  least  half-a- 
dozen.  He  felt  sure  that  not  more  than  four  besides  their 
chief  had  traveled  with  them,  and  yet  now  the  number  had 
increased. 

The  obvious  conclusion  was  that  the  others  were  already 
here  at  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  the  buckboard,  doubtless 
with  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  Retief  s  plans. 

The  Breeds  moved  off  in  various  directions,  and  their 
chief  and  the  money-lender  were  left  alone.  As  soon  as  the 
others  were  out  of  earshot  the  raider  approached  his  captive. 
His  face  seemed  to  have  undergone  some  subtle  change. 
The  lofty  air  of  command  had  been  replaced  by  a  look  of 
bitter  hatred  and  terrible  cruelty. 

"  Now,  Lablache,"  he  said  coldly,  "  I  guess  you're  goin' 
to  see  some  fun.  I  ain't  mostly  hard  on  people.  I  like  to 


212      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

do  the  thing  han'some.  Say  I'll  jest  roll  this  bar'l  'long  so 
as  you  ken  set  An'  see  hyar,  ef  you're  mighty  quiet  I'll 
loose  them  hands  o'  yours," 

Lablache  deigned  no  reply,  but  the  other  was  as  good  as 
his  word. 

"  Sulky,  some,  I  guess,"  the  half-breed  went  on.  "  Wai, 
I'm  not  goin'  back  on  my  word,"  he  added  as  he  rolled  the 
barrel  up  to  his  prisoner  and  scotched  it  securely.  "  Thar, 
set." 

The  money-lender  didn't  move. 

"Set!"  This  time  the  word  conveyed  a  command  and 
the  other  sat  down  on  the  barrel. 

"  Guess  I  can't  stand  cantankerous  cusses.  Now,  let's 
have  a  look  at  yer  bracelets." 

He  sat  beside  his  captive  and  proceeded  to  loosen  the 
rope  which  bound  his  wrists.  Then  he  quietly  drew  his 
pistol  and  rested  it  on  his  knee.  Lablache  enjoyed  his 
freedom,  but  wondered  what  was  coming  next. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  while  the  two  men  gazed 
at  the  corrals  and  buildings  set  out  before  them.  Away  to 
the  right,  on  a  rising  ground,  stood  a  magnificent  house 
built  of  red  pine  lumber.  Lablache  had  built  this  as  a, 
dwelling  for  himself.  For  the  prairie  it  was  palatial,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  the  country  to  equal  it.  This  build- 
ing alone  had  cost  sixty  thousand  dollars.  On  a  lower 
level  there  were  the  great  barns.  Four  or  five  of  these 
stood  linked  up  by  smaller  buildings  and  quarters  for  the 
ranch  hands.  Then  there  was  a  stretch  of  low  buildings 
which  were  the  boxes  built  for  the  great  man's  thoroughbred 
stud  horses.  He  was  possessed  of  six  such  animals,  and 
their  aggregate  cost  ran  into  thousands  of  pounds,  each  one 
having  been  imported  from  England. 

Then  there  were  the  corrals  with  their  great  ten-foot 
walls,  all  built  of  the  finest  pine  logs  cut  from  the  mountain 
forests.  These  corrals  covered  acres  of  ground  and  were 
capable  of  sheltering  five  thousand  head  of  cattle  without 
their  capacity  being  taxed.  It  was  an  ideal  place  and  repre- 


A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR  213 

sented  a  considerable  fortune.  Lablache  noticed  that  the 
corrals  were  entirely  empty.  He  longed  to  ask  his  captor 
for  explanation,  but  would  not  give  that  swarthy  individual 
the  satisfaction  of  imparting  unpleasant  information. 

However,  Retief  did  not  intend  to  let  the  money-lender 
off  lightly.  The  cruel  expression  of  his  face  deepened  as 
he  followed  the  direction  of  Lablache's  gaze. 

"  Fine  place,  this,"  he  said,  with  a  comprehensive  nod. 
"  Cost  a  pile  o'  dollars,  I  take  it." 

No  answer. 

"  You  ain't  got  much  stock.  Guess  the  boys  'ave  helped 
themselves  liberal." 

Lablache  turned  his  face  towards  his  companion.  He 
was  fast  being  drawn. 

"  Heard  'em  gassin'  about  twenty  thousand  head  some 
days  back.  Guess  they've  borrowed  'em,"  he  went  on  in- 
differently. 

"  You  villain !  "  the  exasperated  prisoner  hissed  at  last. 

If  ever  a  look  conveyed  a  lust  for  murder  Lablache's 
lashless  eyes  expressed  it. 

"Eh?  What?  Guess  you  ain't  well."  The  icy  tones 
mocked  at  the  distraught  captive. 

The  money-lender  checked  his  wrath  and  struggled  to 
keep  cool. 

"  My  cattle  are  on  the  range.  You  could  never  have 
driven  off  twenty  thousand  head.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible without  my  hearing  of  it.  It  is  more  than  one 
night's  work." 

"  That's  so,"  replied  the  half-breed,  smiling  sardonically. 
"  Say,  your  hands  and  foreman  are  shut  up  in  their  shack. 
They've  bin  taking  things  easy  fur  a  day  or  two.  Jest  to 
give  my  boys  a  free  hand.  Guess  we've  been  at  work  here 
these  three  days." 

The  money-lender  groaned  inwardly.  He  understood 
the  Breed's  meaning  only  too  well.  At  last  his  bottled-up 
rage  broke  out  again. 

"  Are  you  man  or  devil  that  you  spirit  away  great  herds 


214     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

like  this.  Across  the  keg,  I  know,  but  how  —  how? 
Twenty  thousand!  My  God,  you'll  swing  for  this  night's 
work,"  he  went  on  impotently.  "  The  whole  countryside 
will  be  after  you.  I  am  not  the  man  to  sit  down  quietly 
under  such  handling.  If  I  spend  every  cent  I'm  possessed 
of,  you  shall  be  hounded  down  until  you  dare  not  show 
your  face  on  this  side  of  the  border." 

"  Easy,  boss,"  the  Breed  retorted  imperturbably.  "  Ef 
you  want  to  see  that  precious  store  o'  yours  again  a  civil 
tongue  '11  help  you  best.  I'm  mostly  a  patient  man  —  easy 
goin'-like.  Now  jest  keep  calm  an'  I'll  let  you  see  the 
fun.  Now  that's  a  neat  shack  o'  yours,"  he  went  on,  point- 
ing to  the  money-lender's  mansion.  "  Wonder  ef  I  could 
put  a  dose  o'  lead  into  one  o'  the  windows  from  here." 

Lablache  began  to  think  he  was  dealing  with  a  madman. 
He  remained  silent,  and  the  Breed  leveled  his  pistol  in  the 
direction  of  the  house  and  fired.  A  moment's  silence  fol- 
lowed the  sharp  report.  Then  Retief  turned  to  his  captive. 

"  Guess  I  didn't  hear  any  glass  smash.  Likely  I  missed 
it,"  and  he  chuckled  fiendishly.  Lablache  sat  gazing 
moodily  at  the  building.  Then  the  half-breed's  voice 
roused  him.  "Hello,  wot's  that?"  He  was  pointing  at 
the  house.  "Why,  some  galoot's  lightin'  a  bonfire!  Say, 
that's  dangerous  Lablache.  They  might  fire  your  place." 

But  the  other  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  staring 
wide  with  horror.  As  if  in  answer  to  the  pistol-shot  a  fire 
had  been  lit  against  the  side  of  the  house.  It  was  no 
ordinary  fire,  either,  but  a  great  pile  of  hay.  The  flames 
shot  up  with  terrible  swiftness,  licking  up  the  side  of  the 
red  pine  house  with  lightning  rapidity.  Lablache  under- 
stood. The  house  was  to  be  demolished,  and  Retief  had 
given  the  signal.  He  leapt  up  from  his  seat,  forgetful  of  his 
bound  feet,  and  made  as  though  to  seize  the  Breed  by  the 
throat.  He  got  no  further,  however,  for  Retief  gripped  him 
by  the  shoulder,  and,  notwithstanding  his  great  bulk,  hurled 
him  back  on  to  the  barrel,  at  the  same  time  pressing  the 
muzzle  of  his  pistol  into  his  face. 


A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR  215 

"  Set  down,  you  scum,"  he  thundered.  "  Another  move 
like  that  an'  I'll  let  the  atmosphere  into  yer."  Then  with 
a  sudden  return  to  his  grim  pastime,  as  the  other  remained 
quiet,  "  Say,  red  pine  makes  powerful  fine  kindlin'.  I 
reckon  they'll  see  that  light  at  the  settlement.  You  don't 
seem  pleased,  man.  Ain't  it  a  beaut.  Look,  they've  started 
it  the  other  side.  Now  the  smoke  stack's  caught.  Burn, 
burn,  you  beauty.  Look,  Lablache,  a  sixty  thousand  dollar 
fire,  an'  all  yours.  Ain't  you  proud  to  think  that  it's  all 
yours?" 

Lablache  was  speechless  with  horror.  Words  failed  to 
express  his  feelings.  The  Breed  watched  him  as  a  tiger 
might  contemplate  its  helpless  prey.  He  understood  some- 
thing of  the  agony  the  great  man  was  suffering.  He  wanted 
him  to  suffer  —  he  meant  him  to  suffer.  But  he  had  only 
just  begun  the  torture  he  had  so  carefully  prepared  for  his 
victim. 

Presently  the  roof  of  the  building  crashed  in,  and,  for 
the  moment,  the  blaze  leapt  high.  Then,  soon,  it  began  to 
die  down.  Retief  seemed  to  tire  of  watching  the  dying 
blaze.  He  turned  again  to  his  prisoner. 

"Not  'nough,  eh?  Not  'nough.  We  can't  stop  here  all 
night.  Let's  have  the  rest.  The  sight'll  warm  your  heart." 
And  he  laughed  at  his  own  grim  pleasantry.  "The  boys 
have  cleared  out  your  stud  '  plugs.'  And,  I  guess,  yer 
barns  are  chocked  full  of  yer  wheel  gearing  and  implements. 
Say,  I  guess  we'll  have  'em  next." 

He  turned  from  his  silent  captive  without  waiting  for 
reply,  and  rapidly  discharged  the  remaining  five  barrels  of 
his  pistol.  For  answer  another  five  bonfires  were  lighted 
round  the  barns  and  corals.  Almost  instantly  the  whole 
place  became  a  gorgeous  blaze  of  light.  The  entire  ranch, 
with  the  exception  of  one  little  shack  was  now  burning  as 
only  pine  wood  can  burn.  It  was  a  terrible,  never-to-be- 
forgotten  sight,  and  Lablache  groaned  audibly  as  he  saw 
the  pride  of  his  wealth  rapidly  gutted.  If  ever  a  man 
suffered  the  money-lender  suffered  that  night.  Retief 


216      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

showed  a  great  understanding  of  his  prisoner — far  too 
great  an  understanding  for  a  man  who  was  supposed  to  be 
a  stranger  to  Lablache  —  in  the  way  he  set  about  to  torture 
his  victim.  No  bodily  pain  could  have  equaled  the  mental 
agony  to  which  the  usurer  was  submitted.  The  sight  of  the 
demolishing  of  his  beautiful  ranch  —  probably  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  country  —  was  a  cruelly  exquisite  torture  to 
the  money-loving  man.  That  dread  conflagration  repre- 
sented the  loss  to  him  of  a  fortune,  for,  with  grasping 
pusillanimity,  Lablache  had  refused  to  insure  his  property. 
Had  Retief  known  this  he  could  not  have  served  his  own 
purpose  better.  Possibly  he  did  know,  and  possibly  that  was 
the  inducement  which  prompted  his  action.  Truly  was  the 
money-lender  paying  dearly  for  past  misdeeds.  With  the 
theft  of  his  cattle  and  the  burning  of  his  ranch  his  loss  was 
terrible,  and,  in  his  moment  of  anguish,  he  dared  not  attempt 
to  calculate  the  extent  of  the  catastrophe. 

When  the  fire  was  at  its  height  Retief  again  addressed  his 
taunting  language  to  the  man  beside  him,  and  Lablache 
writhed  under  the  lash  of  that  scathing  tongue. 

"  I've  heerd  tell  you  wer'  mighty  proud  of  this  place  of 
yours.  Spent  piles  o'  bills  on  it.  Nothin'  like  circulatin' 
cash,  I  guess.  Say  now,  how  long  did  it  take  you  to  fix 
them  shacks  up  ?  " 

No  answer.     Lablache  was  beyond  mere  words. 

"  A  sight  longer  than  it  takes  a  bit  of  kindlin*  to  fetch 
'em  down,  I  take  it,"  he  went  on  placidly.  "  When  d'ye 
think  you'll  start  re-building?  I  wonder,"  thoughtfully. 
"  why  they  don't  fire  that  shed  yonder,"  pointing  to  the 
only  building  left  untouched.  "  Ah,  I  was  forgettin',  that's 
whar  your  hands  are  enjoyin'  themselves.  It's  thoughtful 
o'  the  boys.  I  guess  they're  good  lads.  They  don't  cotton 
to  killin'  prairie  hands.  But  they  ain't  so  particular  over 
useless  lumps  o'  flesh,  I  guess,"  with  a  glance  at  the  stricken 
man  beside  him. 

Lablache  was  gasping  heavily.  The  mental  strain  was 
almost  more  than  he  could  bear,  and  his  crushed  and  hope- 


A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR  217 

less  attitude  brought  a  satanic  smile  on  the  cruel  face  be- 
side him. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  fancy  things  much,"  Retief  went 
on.  "Guess  you  ain't  enjoyin'  yerself.  Brace  up,  pard; 
you  won't  git  another  sight  like  this  fur  some  time. 
Why,  wot's  ailing  yer?  "  as  the  barrel  on  which  they  were 
seated  moved  and  Lablache  nearly  rolled  over  backwards. 
"  I  hadn't  a  notion  yer  wouldn't  enjoy  yerself.  Say, 
jest  look  right  thar.  Them  barns,"  he  added,  pointing 
towards  the  fire,  "was  built  mighty  solid.  They're  on'y 
jest  cavin'." 

Lablache  remained  silent.  Words,  he  felt,  would  be  use- 
less. In  fact  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  been  equal  to 
expression.  His  spirit  was  crushed  and  he  feared  the  man 
beside  him  as  he  had  never  feared  any  human  being  before. 
Such  was  the  nervous  strain  put  upon  him  that  the  sense  of 
his  loss  was  rapidly  absorbed  in  a  dread  for  his  own  per- 
sonal safety.  The  conflagration  had  lost  its  fascination  for 
him,  and  at  every  move  —  every  word  —  of  his  captor  he 
dreaded  the  coming  of  his  own  end.  It  was  a  physical  and 
mental  collapse,  and  bordered  closely  on  frenzied  terror.  It 
was  no  mental  effort  of  his  own  that  kept  him  from  hurling 
himself  upon  the  other  and  biting  and  tearing  in  a  vain 
effort  to  rend  the  life  out  of  him.  The  thought  —  the  fever, 
desire,  craving  —  was  there,  but  the  will,  the  personality, 
of  the  Breed  held  him  spellbound,  an  inert  mass  of  flesh 
incapable  of  physical  effort  —  incapable  almost  of  thought, 
but  a  prey  to  an  overwhelming  terror. 

The  watching  half-breed  at  length  rose  from  his  seat  and 
shrugged  his  thin,  stooping  shoulders.  He  had  had  enough 
of  his  pastime,  and  time  was  getting  on.  He  had  other 
work  to  do  before  daylight  He  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
and  imitated  the  cry  of  the  coyote.  An  instant  later  an- 
swering cries  came  from  various  directions,  and  presently 
the  Breeds  gathered  round  their  chief. 

"  Say,  bring  up  the  '  plugs/  lads.  The  old  boy's  had  his 
bellyfull.  I  guess  we'll  git  on."  Then  he  turned  upon 


218      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  broken  money-lender  and  spoke  while  he  re-charged  the 
chambers  of  his  pistol. 

"  See  hyar,  Lablache,  this  night's  work  is  on'y  a  begin- 
ning. So  long  as  you  live  in  Foss  River  Settlement  so  long 
will  I  hunt  you  out  an'  hustle  yer  stock.  You  talked  of 
houndin'  me,  but  I  guess  the  shoe's  on  the  other  foot.  I 
ain't  finished  by  a  sight,  an*  you'll  hear  from  me  agin'.  I 
don't  fancy  yer  life,"  he  went  on  with  a  grin.  "  Et's  too 
easy,  I  guess.  Et's  yer  bills  I'm  after.  Ye've  got  plenty  an* 
to  spare.  But  bills  is  all-fired  awk'ud  to  handle  when  they 
pass  thro'  your  dirty  hands.  So  I'll  wait  till  you've  turned 
'em  into  stock.  Savee?  I'm  jest  goin'  right  on  now. 
Thar's  a  bunch  o*  yer  steers  waitin'  to  be  taken  off.  Happen 
I'm  goin'  to  see  to  'em  right  away.  One  o'  these  lads'll  jest 
set  some  bracelets  on  yer  hands,  and  leave  yer  tucked  up  and 
comfortable  so  you  can't  do  any  harm,  and  you  can  set 
right  thar  an'  wait  till  some  run  comes  along  an'  looses  yer. 
So  long,  pard,  an*  remember,  Foss  River's  the  hottest  place 
outside  o'  hell  fur  you,  jest  now." 

Some  of  the  half-breeds  had  brought  up  the  horses  whilst 
Retief  was  talking,  and,  as  he  finished  speaking,  the  hustler 
vaulted  on  to  the  back  of  the  great  chestnut,  Golden  Eagle, 
and  prepared  to  ride  away.  Whilst  the  others  were  getting 
into  their  saddles  he  took  one  look  at  the  wretched  captive 
whose  hands  had  been  again  secured.  There  was  a  swift 
exchange  of  glances  —  malevolent  and  murderous  on  the 
part  of  the  money-lender,  and  derisive  on  the  part  of  the 
half-breed  —  then  Retief  swung  his  charger  round,  and,  at 
the  head  of  his  men,  galloped  away  out  into  the  starry  night. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HORROCZS   LEARNS   THE   SECRET   OF    THE   MUSKEG 

THE  rope  which  brought  Horrocks  to  the  ground  came 
near  to  strangling  him.  He  struggled  wildly  as  he  fell, 
and,  as  he  struggled,  the  grip  of  the  rope  tightened.  He 
felt  that  the  blood  was  ready  to  burst  from  his  temples  and 
eyes.  Then  everything  seemed  to  swim  about  him  and  he 
believed  consciousness  was  leaving  him.  Everything  was 
done  in  a  moment  and  yet  he  seemed  to  be  passing  through 
an  eternity  of  time. 

The  lariat  is  a  handy  weapon,  but  to  truly  appreciate  its 
merits  one  must  be  a  prairie  man.  The  Breeds  are  prairie 
men.  They  understand  fully  the  uses  to  which  a  "  rope  " 
may  be  put.  For  criminal  purposes  they  appreciate  its 
silent  merits,  and  the  dexterity  with  which  they  can  use  it 
makes  its  value  equal  to,  and  even  surpass,  the  noisier  and 
more  tell-tale  pistol. 

The  next  thing  that  the  policeman  knew  was  that  he  was 
stretched  on  his  back  upon  the  ground,  disarmed,  and  with 
a  great  bandanna  secured  about  his  eyes  and  mouth,  and  his 
hands  tied  behind  his  back.  Then  a  gruff  voice  bade  him 
rise,  and,  as  he  silently  obeyed,  he  was  glad  to  feel  that  the 
gripping  lariat  was  removed  from  his  throat.  Truly  had 
the  officer's  pride  gone  before  a  fall.  And  his  feelings  were 
now  of  the  deepest  chagrin.  He  stood  turning  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  blindly  seeking  to  penetrate  the  bandage 
about  his  eyes.  He  knew  where  he  was,  of  course,  but  he 
would  have  given  half  his  year's  salary  for  a  sight  of  his 
assailants. 

He  was  not  given  long  for  his  futile  efforts.  The  same 

219 


220     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

rough  voice  which  had  bade  him  rise  now  ordered  him  to 
walk,  and  he  found  himself  forced  forward  by  the  aid  of  a 
heavy  hand  which  gripped  one  of  his  arms.  The  feeling  of 
a  blindfold  walk  is  not  a  happy  one,  and  the  officer  ex- 
perienced a  strange  sensation  of  falling  as  he  was  urged 
he  knew  not  whither.  After  a  few  steps  he  was  again  halted, 
and  then  he  felt  himself  seized  from  behind  and  lifted  bodily 
into  a  conveyance. 

He  quickly  realized  that  he  was  in  a  buckboard.  The 
slats  which  formed  the  body  of  it,  as  his  feet  lit  upon  them, 
told  him  this.  Then  two  men  jumped  in  after  him  and  he 
found  himself  seated  between  them.  And  so  he  was  driven 
off. 

In  justice  to  Horrocks  it  must  be  said  that  he  experienced 
no  fear.  True,  his  chagrin  was  very  great.  He  saw  only 
too  plainly  what  want  of  discretion  he  had  displayed  in 
trusting  to  the  Breed's  story,  but  he  felt  that  his  previous 
association  with  the  rascal  warranted  his  credulity,  and  the 
outcome  must  be  regarded  as  the  fortune  of  war.  He  only 
wondered  what  strange  experience  this  blindfold  journey 
was  to  forerun.  There  was  not  the  least  doubt  in  his  mind 
as  to  whose  was  the  devising  of  this  well-laid  and  well-car- 
ried-out  plot.  Retief,  he  knew,  must  be  answerable  for  the 
plan,  and  the  method  displayed  in  its  execution  plainly 
showed  him  that  every  detail  had  been  carefully  thought 
out,  and  administered  by  only  too  willing  hands.  That 
there  was  more  than  ordinary  purpose  in  this  blindfold 
journey  he  felt  assured,  and  he  racked  his  brains  to  dis- 
cover the  desperado's  object.  He  even  found  time  to  spec- 
ulate as  to  how  it  had  fared  with  his  men,  only  here  he  was 
even  more  at  a  loss  than  in  the  case  of  his  own  ultimate 
fate. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time  of  his  capture  the 
buckboard  drew  up  beside  some  bush.  Horrocks  knew  it 
was  a  bluff.  He  could  hear  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  as  they 
fluttered  in  the  gentle  night  air.  Then  he  was  unceremo- 
niously hustled  to  the  ground,  and,  equally  unceremoniously, 


HORROCKS  LEARNS  THE  SECRET    221 

urged  forward  until  his  feet  trod  upon  the  stubbly,  breaking 
undergrowth.  Next  he  was  brought  to  a  stand  and  swung 
round,  face  about,  his  bonds  were  removed,  and  four  power- 
ful hands  gripped  his  arms.  By  these  he  was  drawn  back- 
wards until  he  bumped  against  a  tree-trunk.  His  hands 
were  then  again  made  fast,  but  this  time  his  arms  embraced 
the  tree  behind  him.  In  this  manner  he  was  securely 
trussed. 

Now  from  behind  —  his  captors  were  well  behind  him  — 
a  hand  reached  over,  and,  by  a  swift  movement,  removed 
the  bandage  from  before  his  eyes.  Then,  before  he  had  time 
to  turn  his  head,  he  heard  a  scrambling  through  the  bush, 
and,  a  moment  later,  the  sound  of  the  creaking  buckboard 
rapidly  receding.  He  was  left  alone;  and,  after  one  swift, 
comprehensive  survey,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  himself  fac- 
ing the  wire-spreading  muskeg,  at  the  very  spot  where  he 
had  given  up  further  pursuit  of  the  cattle  whose  "  spur  "  he 
had  traced  down  to  the  brink  of  the  viscid  mire. 

His  astonishment  rendered  him  oblivious  to  all  else.  He 
merely  gazed  out  across  that  deceptive  flat  and  wondered. 
Why  —  why  had  this  thing  been  done,  and  what  strange 
freak  had  induced  the  "  hustler  "  to  conceive  such  a  form  of 
imprisonment  for  his  captive?  Horrocks  struggled  with  his 
confusion,  but  he  failed  to  fathom  the  mystery,  and  never 
was  a  man's  confusion  worse  confounded  than  was  his. 

Presently  he  bethought  him  of  his  bonds,  and  he  cautiously 
tried  them.  They  were  quite  unyielding,  and,  at  each  turn 
of  his  arms,  they  caused  him  considerable  pain.  The  Breeds 
had  done  their  work  well,  and  he  realized  that  he  must  wait 
the  raider's  pleasure.  He  was  certain  of  one  thing,  how- 
ever, which  brought  him  a  slight  amount  of  comfort.  He 
had  been  brought  here  for  a  definite  purpose.  Moreover,  he 
did*not  believe  that  he  was  to  be  left  here  alone  for  long. 
So,  with  resignation  induced  by  necessity,  he  possessed  him- 
self of  what  patience  he  best  could  summon. 

How  long  that  solitary  vigil  lasted  Horrocks  had  no  idea. 
Time,  in  that  predicament,  was  to  him  of  little  account. 


222      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

He  merely  wondered  and  waited.  He  considered  himself 
more  than  fortunate  that  his  captors  had  seen  fit  to  remove 
the  bandage  from  his  eyes.  In  spite  of  his  painful  captivity 
he  felt  less  helpless  from  the  fact  that  he  could  see  what 
might  be  about  him. 

From  a  general  survey  his  attention  soon  became  riveted 
upon  the  muskeg  spread  out  before  him,  and,  before  long, 
his  thoughts  turned  to  the  secret  path  which  he  knew,  at 
some  point  near  by,  bridged  the  silent  horror.  All  about 
him  was  lit  by  the  starry  splendor  of  the  sky.  The  scent 
of  the  redolent  grass  of  the  great  keg  hung  heavily  upon  the 
air  and  smelt  sweet  in  his  nostrils.  He  could  see  the  ghostly 
outline  of  the  distant  peaks  of  the  mountains,  he  could  hear 
the  haunting  cries  of  nightfowl  and  coyote;  but  these  things 
failed  to  interest  him.  Familiarity  with  the  prairie  made 
them,  to  him,  commonplace.  The  path  —  the  secret  of  the 
great  keg.  That  was  the  absorbing  thought  which  occupied 
his  waiting  moments.  He  felt  that  its  discovery  would 
more  than  compensate  for  any  blunders  he  had  made.  He 
strained  his  keen  eyes  as  he  gazed  at  the  tall  waving  grass 
of  the  mire,  as  though  to  tear  from  the  bosom  of  the  awful 
swamp  the  secret  it  so  jealously  guarded.  He  slowly  sur- 
veyed its  dark  surface,  almost  inch  by  inch,  in  the  hopes  of 
discovering  the  smallest  indication  or  difference  which  might 
lead  to  the  desired  end. 

There  was  nothing  in  what  he  saw  to  guide  him,  nothing 
which  offered  the  least  suggestion  of  a  path.  In  the  dark- 
ness the  tall  waving  grass  took  a  nondescript  hue  which 
reached  unbroken  for  miles  around.  Occasionally  the 
greensward  seemed  to  ripple  in  the  breeze,  like  water  swayed 
by  a  soft  summer  zephyr,  but  beyond  this  the  outlook  was 
uniform  —  darkly  mysterious  —  inscrutable. 

His  arms  cramped  under  the  pressure  of  the  restraining 
bonds  and  he  moved  uneasily.  Now  and  again  the  rustling 
of  the  leaves  overhead  caused  him  to  listen  keenly.  Grad- 
ually his  fancy  became  slightly  distorted,  and,  as  time 
passed,  the  sounds  which  had  struck  so  familiarly  upon  his 


HORROCKS  LEARNS  THE  SECRET    223 

ears,  and  which  had  hitherto  passed  unheeded,  began  to  get 
upon  his  nerves. 

By-and-by  he  found  himself  listening  eagerly  for  the 
monotonous  repetition  of  the  prairie  scavenger's  dismal 
howl,  and  as  the  cries  recurred  they  seemed  to  grow  in  power 
and  become  more  plaintively  horrible.  Now,  too,  the  sigh- 
ing of  the  breeze  drew  more  keen  attention  from  the  im- 
prisoned man,  and  fancy  magnified  it  into  the  sound  of 
many  approaching  feet.  These  matters  were  the  effect  of 
solitude.  At  such  times  nerves  play  curious  pranks. 

In  spite  of  his  position,  in  spite  of  his  anxiety  of  mind, 
the  police-officer  began  to  grow  drowsy.  The  long  night's 
vigil  was  telling,  and  nature  rebelled,  as  she  always  will 
rebel  when  sleep  is  refused  and  bodily  rest  is  unobtainable. 
A  man  may  pace  his  bedroom  for  hours  with  the  unmiti- 
gated pain  of  toothache.  Even  while  the  pain  is  almost 
unendurable  his  eyes  will  close  and  he  will  continue  his 
peregrinations  with  tottering  gait,  awake,  but  with  most  of 
his  faculties  drowsily  faltering.  Horrocks  found  his  head 
drooping  forward,  and,  even  against  his  will,  his  eyes  would 
close.  Time  and  again  he  pulled  himself  together,  only  the 
next  instant  to  catch  himself  dozing  off  again. 

Suddenly,  however,  he  was  electrified  into  life.  He  was 
awake  now,  and  all  drowsiness  had  vanished.  A  sound  — 
distant,  rumbling,  but  distinct  —  had  fallen  upon  his,  for 
the  moment,  dulled  ears.  For  awhile  it  likened  to  the  far- 
off  growl  of  thunder,  blending  with  a  steady  rush  of  wind. 
But  it  was  not  passing.  The  sound  remained  and  grew 
steadily  louder.  A  minute  passed  —  then  another  and  then 
another.  Horrocks  stared  in  the  direction,  listening  with 
almost  painful  intensity.  As  the  rumbling  grew,  and  the 
sound  became  more  distinct,  a  light  of  intelligence  crept  into 
the  prisoner's  face.  He  heard  and  recognized. 

"  Cattle!  "  he  muttered,  and  in  that  pronouncement  was 
an  inflection  of  joy.  "  Cattle  —  and  moving  at  a  great 
pace." 

He  was  alert  now,  as  alert  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life. 


224      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Was  he  at  last  going  to  discover  the  coveted  secret?  Cattle 
traveling  fast  at  this  time  of  night,  and  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
great  keg.  What  could  it  mean?  To  his  mind  there  could 
only  be  one  construction  which  he  could  reasonably  put  upon 
the  circumstance.  The  cattle  were  being  "  hustled,"  and 
the  hustler  must  be  the  half-breed  Retief. 

Then,  like  a  douche  of  cold  water,  followed  the  thought 
that  he  had  been  purposely  made  a  prisoner  at  the  edge  of 
the  muskeg.  Surely  he  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  see  the 
cattle  pass  over  the  mire  and  then  be  permitted  to  go  free. 
Even  Retief  in  his  wildest  moments  of  bravado  could  not 
meditate  so  reckless  a  proceeding.  No,  there  was  some 
subtle  purpose  underlying  this  new  development  —  possibly 
the  outcome  was  to  be  far  more  grim  than  he  had  supposed. 
He  waited  horrified,  at  his  own  thoughts,  but  fascinated  in 
spite  of  himself. 

The  sound  grew  rapidly  and  Horrocks's  face  remained 
turned  in  the  direction  from  which  it  proceeded.  He 
fancied,  even  in  the  uncertain  light,  that  he  could  see  the 
distant  crowd  of  beasts  silhouetted  against  the  sky-line.  His 
post  of  imprisonment  was  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  bush, 
and  he  had  a  perfect  and  uninterrupted  view  of  the  prairie 
along  the  brink  of  the  keg,  both  to  the  north  and  south. 

It  was  his  fancy,  however,  which  designed  the  silhouette, 
and  he  soon  became  aware  that  the  herd  was  nearer  than 
he  had  supposed.  The  noise  had  become  a  continuous 
roar  as  the  driven  beasts  came  on,  and  he  saw  them  loom 
towards  him  a  black  patch  on  the  dark  background  of  the 
dimly-lit  prairie.  The  bunch  was  large,  but  his  straining 
eyes  as  yet  could  make  no  estimate  of  its  numbers.  He 
could  see  several  herders,  but  these,  too,  were  as  yet  beyond 
recognition. 

Yet  another  surprise  was  in  store  for  the  waiting  man. 
So  fixed  had  his  attention  been  upon  the  on-coming  cattle 
that  he  had  not  once  removed  his  eyes  from  the  direction 
of  their  approach.  Now,  however,  a  prolonged  bellow  to 
the  right  of  him  caused  him  to  turn  abruptly.  To  his  utter 


HORROCKS  LEARNS  THE  SECRET    225 

astonishment  he  saw,  not  fifty  yards  from  him,  a  solitary 
horxeman  leading  a  couple  of  steers  by  ropes  affixed  to  their 
horns.  He  wondered  how  long  this  strange  apparition  had 
been  there.  The  horse  was  calmly  nibbling  at  the  grass, 
and  the  man  was  quietly  resting  himself  with  elbows  propped 
upon  the  horn  of  his  saddle.  He,  too,  appeared  to  be  gazing 
in  the  direction  of  the  on-coming  cattle.  Horrocks  tried 
hard  to  distinguish  the  man's  appearance,  but  the  light  was 
too  uncertain  to  give  him  more  than  the  vaguest  idea  of  his 
personality. 

The  horse  seemed  to  be  black  or  very  dark  brown.  And 
the  general  outline  of  the  rider  was  that  of  a  short  slight 
man,  with  rather  long  hair  which  flowed  from  beneath  the 
brim  of  his  Stetson  hat.  The  most  curious  distinguishable 
feature  was  his  slightness.  The  horse  was  big  and  the  man 
was  so  small  that,  as  he  sat  astride  of  his  charger,  he  looked 
to  be  little  more  than  a  boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen. 

Horrocks's  survey  was  cut  short,  however,  for  now  the 
herd  of  cattle  was  tearing  down  upon  him  at  a  desperate 
racing  pace.  He  saw  the  solitary  rider  gather  up  his  lines 
and  move  his  horse  further  away  from  the  edge  of  the 
muskeg.  Then  the  herd  of  cattle  came  along.  They  raced 
past  the  bluff  where  the  officer  was  stationed,  accompanied 
by  four  swarthy  drivers,  one  of  which  was  mounted  upon  a 
great  chestnut  horse  whose  magnificent  stride  and  propor- 
tions fixed  the  captive's  attention.  He  had  heard  of 
"  Golden  Eagle,"  and  he  had  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  this 
was  he  and  the  rider  was  the  celebrated  cattle-thief.  The 
band  and  its  drovers  swept  by,  and  Horrocks  estimated  that 
the  cattle  numbered  many  hundreds. 

After  awhile  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  Then  the 
beasts  were  driven  back  again  over  their  tracks,  only  at  a 
more  gentle  pace.  Several  times  the  performance  was  gone 
through,  and  each  time,  as  they  passed  him,  Horrocks 
noticed  that  their  pace  was  decreased,  until  by  the  sixth 
time  they  passed  their  gait  had  become  a  simple  mouche, 
and  they  leisurely  nipped  up  the  grass  as  they  went,  with 


226     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

bovine  unconcern.  It  was  a  masterly  display  of  how  cattfe 
can  be  handled,  and  Horrocks  forgot  for  a  while  his  other 
troubles  in  his  interest  in  the  spectacle. 

After  passing  him  for  the  sixth  time  the  cattle  came  to 
a  halt;  and  then  the  strangest  part  of  this  strange  scene 
was  enacted.  The  horseman  with  the  led  steers,  whom,  by 
this  time,  Horrocks  had  almost  forgotten,  came  leisurely 
upon  the  field  of  action.  No  instructions  were  given.  The 
whole  thing  was  done  in  almost  absolute  silence.  It  seemed 
as  if  long  practice  had  perfected  the  method  of  pro- 
cedure. 

The  horseman  advanced  to  the  brink  of  the  muskeg,  ex- 
actly opposite  to  the  bluff  where  the  captive  was  tied,  and 
with  him  the  two  led  steers.  Horrocks  held  his  breath  — 
his  excitement  was  intense.  The  swarthy  drivers  roused 
the  tired  cattle  and  headed  them  towards  the  captive  steers. 
Horrocks  saw  the  boyish  rider  urge  his  horse  fearlessly  on 
to  the  treacherous  surface  of  the  keg.  The  now  docile  and 
exhausted  cattle  followed  leisurely.  There  was  no  undue 
bustle  or  haste.  It  was  a  veritable  "  follow  my  leader.'* 
Where  it  was  good  enough  for  the  captive  leaders  to  go  it 
was  good  enough  for  the  weary  beasts  to  follow,  and  so,  as 
the  boy  rider  moved  forward,  the  great  herd  followed  in 
twos  and  threes.  The  four  drivers  remained  until  the  end, 
and  then,  as  the  last  steer  set  foot  on  the  dreadful  mire, 
they  too  joined  in  the  silent  procession. 

Horrocks  exerted  all  his  prairie  instinct  as  he  watched 
the  course  of  that  silent  band.  He  was  committing  to  mem- 
ory, as  far  as  he  was  capable,  the  direction  of  the  path 
across  the  keg,  for,  when  opportunity  offered,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  follow  up  his  discovery  and  attempt  the  journey 
himself.  He  fancied  in  his  own  secret  her.rt  that  Retief 
had  at  last  overreached  himself,  and  in  thus  giving  away 
his  secret  he  was  paving  the  way  to  his  own  capture. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  cattle  and  their  drivers  passed 
out  of  sight,  but  Horrocks  continued  to  watch,  so  that  he 
should  lose  no  chance  detail  of  interest  At  length,  how- 


HORROCKS  LEARNS  THE  SECRET    227 

ever,  he  found  that  his  straining  gaze  was  useless,  and  all 
further  interest  passed  out  of  his  lonely  vigil. 

Now  he  busied  himself  with  plans  for  his  future  move- 
ments, when  he  should  once  more  be  free.  And  in  such 
thought  the  long  night  passed,  and  the  time  drew  on  to- 
wards dawn. 

The  surprises  of  the  night  were  not  yet  over,  however, 
for  just  before  the  first  streaks  of  daylight  shot  athwart 
the  eastern  sky  he  saw  two  horsemen  returning  across  the 
muskeg.  He  quickly  recognized  them  as  being  the  raider 
himself  and  the  boyish  rider  who  had  led  the  cattle  across 
the  mire.  They  came  across  at  a  good  pace,  and  as  they 
reached  the  bank  the  officer  was  disgusted  to  see  the  boy 
ride  off  in  a  direction  away  from  the  settlement,  and  the 
raider  come  straight  towards  the  bluff.  Horrocks  was 
curious  about  the  boy  who  seemed  so  conversant  with  the 
path  across  the  mire,  and  was  anxious  to  have  obtained  a 
clearer  view  of  him. 

The  raider  drew  his  horse  up  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
captive.  Horrocks  had  a  good  view  of  the  man's  command- 
ing, eagle  face.  In  spite  of  himself  he  could  not  help  but 
feel  a  strange  admiration  for  this  lawless  Breed. 

There  was  something  wonderfully  fascinating  and  lofty  in 
the  hustler's  direct,  piercing  gaze  as,  proudly  disdainful,  he 
looked  down  upon  his  discomfited  prisoner. 

He  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  speak.  A  shadowy  smile 
hovered  about  his  face  as  he  eyed  the  officer.  Then  he 
turned  away  and  looked  over  to  the  eastern  horizon.  He 
turned  back  again  and  drawled  out  a  greeting.  It  was  not 
cordial  but  it  was  characteristic  of  him. 

"Wai?" 

Horrocks  made  no  reply.  The  Breed  laughed  mockingly, 
and  leant  forward  upon  the  horn  of  his  saddle. 

"  Guess  you've  satisfied  your  curiosity  —  some.  Say,  the 
boys  didn't  handle  you  too  rough,  I  take  it.  I  told  'em  to 
go  light." 

Horrocks  was  constrained  to  retort. 


228      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"Not  so  rough  as  you'll  be  handled  when  you  get  the 
law  about  you." 

"Now  I  call  that  unfriendly.  Guess  them's  gopher's 
words.  But  say,  pard,  the  law  ain't  got  me  yet.  Wot  d'ye 
think  of  the  road  across  the  keg?  Mighty  fine  trail  that." 
He  laughed  as  though  enjoying  a  good  joke. 

Horrocks  felt  that  he  must  terminate  this  interview.  The 
Breed  had  a  most  provoking  way  with  him.  His  self- 
satisfaction  annoyed  his  hearer. 

"How  much  longer  do  you  intend  to  keep  me  here?" 
Horrocks  exclaimed  bitterly.  "  I  suppose  you  mean  mur- 
der; you'd  better  get  on  with  it  and  stop  gassing.  Men  of 
your  kidney  don't  generally  take  so  much  time  over  that  sort 
of  business." 

Retief  seemed  quite  unruffled. 

"  Murder?  Why,  man,  I  didn't  bring  you  here  to  murder 
you.  Guess  ef  I'd  a  notion  that  way  you'd  'a'  been  done 
neat  long  ago.  No,  I  jest  wanted  to  show  you  what  you 
wanted  to  find  out.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  go,  so  you, 
an*  that  skunk  Lablache'll  be  able  to  chin-wag  over  this 
night's  doin's.  That's  wot  I'm  here  fer  right  now." 

As  he  finished  speaking  the  Breed  circled  Golden  Eagle 
round  behind  the  tree,  and,  bending  low  down  from  the 
saddle,  he  cut  the  rope  which  held  the  policeman's  wrists. 
Horrocks,  feeling  himself  freed,  stepped  quickly  from  the 
bush  into  the  open,  and  faced  about  towards  his  liberator. 
As  he  did  so  he  found  himself  looking  up  into  the  muzzle 
of  Retief's  revolver.  He  stood  his  ground  unflinchingly. 

"  Now,  see  hyar,  pard,"  said  Retief,  quietly,  "  I've  a 
mighty  fine  respect  for  you.  You  ain't  the  cuckoo  that 
many  o'  yer  mates  is.  You've  got  grit,  anyway.  But  that 
ain't  all  you  need.  *  Savee's'  a  mighty  fine  thing  —  on 
occasions.  Now  you  need  *  Savee.'  I'll  jest  give  yer  a 
piece  of  advice  right  hyar.  You  go  straight  off  down  to 
Lablache's  ranch.  You'll  find  him  thar.  An'  pesky  un- 
comfortable you'll  find  him.  You  ken  set  him  free,  also  his 
ranch  boys,  an'  when  you've  done  that  jest  make  tracks  for 


HORROCKS  LEARNS  THE  SECRET    229 

Stormy  Cloud  an'  don't  draw  rein  till  you  git  thar.  Ef  ever 
you  see  Retief  on  one  trail,  jest  hit  right  off  on  to  another. 
That's  good  sound  sense  right  through  fur  you.  Say,  work 
on  that,  an'  you  ain't  like  to  come  to  no  harm.  But  I  swear, 
right  hyar,  ef  you  an'  me  ever  come  to  close  quarters  I'll 
perforate  you — 'less  you  git  the  drop  on  me.  An'  to  do 
that'll  keep  you  humpin'.  So  long,  pard.  It's  jest  gettin' 
daylight,  an'  I  don't  calc'late  to  slouch  around  hyar  when 
the  sun's  shinin'.  Don't  go  fur  to  forget  my  advice.  I 
don't  charge  nothin'  fur  it,  but  it's  good,  pard  —  real  good, 
for  all  that.  So  long." 

He  swung  his  horse  round,  and  before  Horrocks  had  time 
to  collect  himself,  much  less  to  speak,  he  was  almost  out 
of  sight. 

Half  dazed  and  still  wondering  at  the  strangeness  of  the 
desperate  Breed's  manner  he  mechanically  began  to  walk 
slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  Foss  River  Settlement. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  DAY   AFTER 

MORNING  broke  over  a  disturbed  and  restless  community 
at  Foss  River.  The  chief  residents  who  were  not  imme- 
diately concerned  in  the  arrest  of  Retief  —  only  deeply  in- 
terested, and  therefore  skeptical  —  had  gone  to  bed  over- 
night eager  for  the  morning  light  to  bring  them  news.  Their 
broken  slumbers  ceased  as  daylight  broadened  into  sunrise, 
and,  without  waiting  for  their  morning  coffee,  the  majority 
set  out  to  gather  the  earliest  crumbs  of  news  obtainable. 
There  were  others,  of  course,  who  were  not  in  the  know,  or, 
at  least,  had  only  heard  vague  rumors.  These  were  less 
interested,  and  therefore  failed  to  rise  so  early. 

Amongst  the  earliest  abroad  was  Doctor  Abbot.  Aunt 
Margaret's  interest  was  not  sufficient  to  drag  her  from  her 
downy  couch  thus  early,  but,  with  truly  womanly  logic,  she 
saw  no  reason  why  the  doctor  should  not  glean  for  her  the 
information  she  required.  Therefore  the  doctor  rose  and 
shivered  under  the  lightness  of  his  summer  apparel  in  the 
brisk  morning  air. 

The  market-place,  upon  which  the  doctor's  house  looked, 
was  almost  deserted  when  he  passed  out  of  his  door.  He 
glanced  quickly  around  for  some  one  whom  he  might 
recognize.  He  saw  that  the  door  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  shack 
was  open,  but  it  was  too  far  off  for  him  to  see  whether  that 
lazy  individual  was  yet  up.  A  neche  was  leisurely  cleaning 
up  round  Lablache's  store,  whilst  the  local  butcher  was 
already  busy  swabbing  out  the  little  shed  which  did  duty 
for  his  shop.  As  yet  there  was  no  other  sign  of  life  abroad, 
and  Doctor  Abbot  prepared  to  walk  across  to  the  butcher 
for  a  gossip,  and  thus  wait  for  some  one  else  to  come  along. 

He  stepped  briskly  from  his  house,  for  he  was 

230 


THE  DAY  AFTER  231 

"  schrammed  "  with  cold  in  his  white  drill  clothing.  As 
he  approached  the  energetic  butcher,  he  saw  a  man  enter- 
ing the  market-place  from  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
settlement.  He  paused  to  look  closely  at  the  new-comer. 
In  a  moment  he  recognized  Thompson,  one  of  the  clerks 
from  Lablache's  store.  He  conjectured  at  once  that  this 
man  might  be  able  to  supply  him  with  the  information  he 
desired,  and  so  changed  his  direction  and  went  across  to 
meet  him. 

"  Mornin',  Thompson,"  he  said,  peering  keenly  into  the 
pale,  haggard  face  of  the  money-lender's  employee.  "  What's 
up  with  you?  You  look  positively  ill.  Have  you  heard 
how  the  arrest  went  off  last  night?  " 

There  was  a  blunt  directness  about  the  doctor  which  gen- 
erally drove  straight  to  the  point.  The  clerk  wearily  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead.  He  seemed  half  asleep,  and, 
as  the  doctor  had  asserted,  thoroughly  ill. 

"  Arrest,  doctor  ?  Precious  little  arrest  there's  been.  I've 
been  out  on  the  prairie  all  night.  What,  haven't  you  heard 
about  the  governor?  Good  lor'!  I  don't  know  what's  go- 
ing to  happen  to  us  all.  Do  you  think  we're  safe  here?  " 

"Safe  here?  What  do  you  mean,  man?"  the  doctor 
answered,  noting  the  other's  fearful  glances  round.  "  Why, 
what  ails  you?  What  about  Lablache?  " 

Others  had  now  appeared  upon  the  market-place  and 
Doctor  Abbot  saw  "  Lord  "  Bill,  dressed  in  a  gray  tweed 
suit,  and  looking  as  fresh  as  if  he  had  just  emerged  from 
the  proverbial  bandbox,  coming  leisurely  towards  him. 

"What  about  Lablache,  eh?"  replied  Thompson,  echo- 
ing the  doctor's  question  ruefully.  "  A  pretty  nice  thing 
Horrocks  and  his  fellows  have  let  themselves,  and  us,  in 
for." 

Bill  had  come  up  now  and  several  others  had  joined  the 
group.  They  stood  by  and  listened  while  the  clerk  told 
his  story.  And  what  a  story  it  was  too.  It  was  vividly 
sanguinary,  and  enough  to  strike  terror  into  the  hearts  of 
his  audience. 


232     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

He  told  with  great  gusto  of  how  Lablache  had  been 
abducted.  How  the  police  horses  and  the  money-lender's 
had  been  stolen  from  the  stables  at  the  store.  He  dwelt 
on  the  frightful  horrors  committed  up  at  the  Breed  camp. 
How  he  had  seen  the  police  shot  down  before  his  very 
eyes,  and  he  became  expansive  on  the  fact  that,  with  his 
own  hands,  Retief  had  carried  off  Horrocks,  and  how  he 
had  heard  the  raider  declare  his  intention  of  hanging  him. 
It  was  a  terrible  tale  of  woe,  and  his  audience  was  thrilled 
and  horrified.  "  Lord  "  Bill  alone  appeared  unmoved.  A 
close  observer  even  might  have  noticed  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  a  smile  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  The  smile  broad- 
ened as  the  sharp  doctor  launched  a  question  at  the  narrator 
of  terrible  facts. 

"  How  came  you  to  see  all  this,  and  escape?  " 

Thompson  was  at  no  loss.  He  told  how  he  had  been 
sent  up  by  "  Poker  "  John  to  find  Horrocks  and  tell  him 
about  Lablache.  How  he  arrived  in  time  to  see  the  horrors 
perpetrated,  and  how  he  only  managed  to  escape  with  his 
own  life  by  flight,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  and  how, 
pursued  by  the  blood-thirsty  Breeds,  he  had  managed  to 
hide  on  the  prairie,  where  he  remained  until  daylight,  and 
then  by  a  circuitous  route  got  back  to  the  settlement 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  doctor,"  he  finished  up  con- 
sequentially, "  the  Breeds  are  in  open  rebellion,  and,  headed 
by  that  devil,  Retief,  intend  to  clear  us  whites  out  of  the 
country.  It's  the  starting  of  another  Riel  rebellion,  and  if 
we  don't  get  help  from  the  Government  quickly,  it's  all  up 
with  us.  That's  my  opinion,"  and  he  gazed  patronizingly 
upon  the  crowd,  which  by  this  time  had  assembled. 

"  Nonsense,  man,"  said  the  doctor  sharply.  "  Your  opin- 
ion's warped.  Besides,  you're  in  a  blue  funk.  Come  on 
over  to  *  old  man '  Smith's  and  have  a  '  freshener.'  You 
want  bucking-up.  Coming,  Bill  ?  "  he  went  on,  turning  to 
Bunning-Ford.  "  I  want  an  *  eye-opener '  myself.  What 
say  to  a  'Collins'?" 

The  three  moved  away  from  the  crowd,  which  they  left 


THE  DAY  AFTER  233 

horrified  at  what  it  had  heard,  and  eagerly  discussing  and 
enlarging  upon  the  sanguinary  stories  of  Thompson. 

"  Poker  "  John  was  already  at  the  saloon  when  the  three 
reached  the  door  of  "  old  man  "  Smith's  reeking  den.  The 
proprietor  was  sweeping  the  bar,  in  a  vain  effort  to  clear 
the  atmosphere  of  the  nauseating  stench  of  stale  tobacco 
and  drink.  John  was  propped  against  the  bar  mopping  up 
his  fourth  "  Collins."  He  usually  had  a  thirst  that  took 
considerable  quenching  in  the  mornings  now.  His  over- 
night potations  were  deep  and  strong.  Morning  "  nibbling  " 
had  consequently  become  a  disease  with  him.  "  Old  man  " 
Smith,  with  a  keen  eye  to  business,  systematically  mixed 
the  rancher's  morning  drinks  good  and  strong. 

Bill  and  the  doctor  were  not  slow  to  detect  the  condition 
of  their  old  friend,  and  each  felt  deeply  on  the  subject. 
Their  cheery  greetings,  however,  were  none  the  less  hearty. 
Smith  desisted  in  his  dusty  occupation  and  proceeded  to  serve 
his  customers. 

"  We're  having  lively  times,  John,"  said  the  doctor,  after 
emptying  his  "  long  sleever."  "  Guess  Retief's  making 
things  '  hum '  in  Foss  River." 

"  Hum?  Shout  is  more  like  it,"  drawled  Bill.  "  You've 
heard  all  the  news,  John?  " 

"  I've  enough  news  of  my  own,"  growled  the  rancher. 

"  Been  up  all  night.  I  see  you've  got  Thompson  with 
you.  What  did  Horrocks  do  after  you  told  him  about 
Lablache  ?  "  he  went  on,  turning  to  the  clerk. 

Bill  and  the  doctor  exchanged  meaning  glances.  The 
clerk  having  found  a  fresh  audience  again  repeated  his  story. 
"  Poker  "  John  listened  carefully.  At  the  close  of  the  nar- 
rative he  snorted  disdainfully  and  looked  from  the  clerk  to 
his  two  friends.  Then  he  laughed  loudly.  The  clerk  be- 
came angry. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Allandale,  but  if  you  doubt  my  word  — " 

"  Doubt  your  word,  boy?  "  he  said,  when  his  mirth  had 
subsided.  "  I  don't  doubt  your  word.  Only  I've  spent 
most  of  the  night  up  at  the  Breed  camp  myself." 


234      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  And  were  you  there,  sir,  when  Horrocks  was  cap- 
tured?" 

"  No,  I  was  not.  After  you  came  to  my  place  and  went 
on  to  the  camp,  I  was  very  uneasy.  So,  after  a  bit,  I  got 
my  '  hands '  together  and  prepared  to  follow  you  up  there. 
Just  as  I  was  about  to  set  out,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the 
doctor  and  Bill,  "  I  met  Jacky  coming  in.  Bless  you  if  she 
hadn't  been  to  see  the  pusky  herself.  You  know,"  with  a 
slight  frown,  "  that  child  is  much  too  fond  of  those  skulking 
Breeds.  Well,  anyway,  she  said  everything  was  quiet 
enough  while  she  was  there  and,"  turning  again  to  Thomp- 
son, "  she  had  seen  nothing  of  Retief  or  Horrocks  or  any 
of  the  latter's  men.  We  just  put  our  heads  together,  and 
she  convinced  me  that  I  was  right,  after  what  had  occurred 
at  the  store,  and  had  better  go  up.  So  up  I  went.  We 
searched  the  whole  camp.  I  guess  we  were  there  for  nigh 
on  three  hours.  The  place  was  quiet  enough.  They  were 
still  dancing  and  drinking,  but  not  a  blessed  sign  of  Hor- 
rocks could  we  find." 

"  I  expect  he'd  gone  before  you  got  there,  sir,"  put  in 
Thompson. 

"  Did  you  find  the  bodies  of  the  murdered  police?  "  asked 
the  doctor  innocently. 

"  Not  a  sign  of  'em,"  laughed  John.  "  There  were  no 
dead  policemen,  and,  what's  more,  there  was  no  trace  of 
any  shooting." 

The  three  men  turned  on  the  clerk,  who  felt  that  he 
must  justify  himself. 

"There  was  shooting  enough,  sir;  you  mark  my  words. 
You'll  hear  of  it  to-day,  sure." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  walked  away  towards  the  window  in  dis- 
gust. The  clerk  annoyed  him. 

"  No,  boy,  no.  I'm  thinking  you  are  mistaken.  I  should 
have  discovered  some  trace  had  there  been  any  shooting.  I 
don't  deny  that  your  story's  true,  but  in  the  excitement  of 
the  moment  I  guess  you  got  rattled  —  and  saw  things." 

Old   John  laughed  and  turned  away.     At  that  instant 


THE  DAY  AFTER  235 

Bill  called  them  all  over  to  the  window.  The  bar  window 
overlooked  the  market-place,  and  the  front  of  Lablache's 
store  was  almost  opposite  to  it. 

Bill  pointed  towards  the  store  as  the  three  men  gathered 
round.  "  Old  man "  Smith  also  ranged  himself  with  the 
others. 

"  Look!  "  Bill  smiled  grimly. 

A  buckboard  had  just  drawn  up  outside  Lablache's  em- 
porium and  two  people  were  alighting.  A  crowd  had  gath- 
ered round  the  arrivals.  There  was  no  mistaking  one  of 
the  figures.  The  doctor  was  the  first  to  give  expression 
to  the  thought  that  was  in  the  mind  of  each  of  the  interested 
spectators. 

"Lablache!"  he  exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

"  And  Horrocks,"  added  "  Lord  "  Bill  quietly. 

"  Guess  he  wasn't  hung  then  after  all,"  said  "  Poker  " 
John,  turning  as  he  spoke.  But  Thompson  had  taken  his 
departure.  This  last  blow  was  too  much.  And  he  felt 
that  it  was  an  advantageous  moment  in  which  to  retire  to 
his  employer's  store,  and  hide  his  diminished  head  amongst 
the  bales  of  dry  goods  and  the  monumental  ledgers  to  be 
found  there. 

"  That  youth  has  a  considerable  imagination."  The  Hon. 
Bunning-Ford  turned  from  the  window  and  strolled  leisurely 
towards  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  exclaimed  "  Poker  "  John. 

"  To  cook  some  breakfast" 

"  No,  no,  you  must  come  up  to  the  ranch  with  me.  Let's 
go  right  over  to  the  store  first,  and  hear  what  Lablache  has 
to  say.  Then  we'll  go  and  feed." 

Bill  shrugged.     Then  — 

"  Lablache  and  I  are  not  on  the  best  of  terms,"  he  said 
doubtfully.  He  wished  to  go  notwithstanding  his  demur. 
Besides  he  was  anxious  to  go  on  to  the  ranch  to  see  Jackv. 
The  doubt  in  his  tone  gave  John  his  cue,  and  the  old  man 
refused  to  be  denied. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  and  linking  his  arm  within  the 


236      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

other's,  he  led  the  way  over  to  the  store;  the  doctor,  equally 
eager,  bringing  up  the  rear. 

Bill  suffered  himself  to  be  thus  led.  He  knew  that  in 
such  company  Lablache  could  not  very  well  refuse  him 
admission  to  his  office.  He  had  a  decided  wish  to  be  present 
when  the  money-lender  told  his  tale.  However,  in  this  he 
was  doomed  to  disappointment.  Lablache  had  already  de- 
cided upon  a  plan  of  action. 

At  the  store  the  three  friends  made  their  way  through  the 
crowd  of  curious  people  who  had  gathered  on  the  unexpected 
return  of  the  chief  actors  in  last  night's  drama;  they  made 
their  way  quickly  round  to  the  back  where  the  private  door 
was. 

Lablache  was  within,  and  with  him  Horrocks.  The 
heavy  voice  of  the  money-lender  answered  "  Poker  "  John's 
summons. 

"  Come  in." 

He  was  surprised  when  the  door  opened,  and  he  saw 
who  his  visitors  were.  John  and  the  doctor  he  was  prepared 
for,  but  "  Lord  "  Bill's  coming  was  a  different  matter.  For 
an  instant  he  seriously  meditated  an  angry  objection.  Then 
he  altered  his  mind,  a  thing  which  was  rare  with  him. 
After  all  the  man's  presence  could  do  no  harm,  and  he  felt 
that  to  object  to  him,  would  be  to  quarrel  with  the  rancher. 
On  second  thoughts  he  would  tolerate  what  he  considered 
the  intrusion. 

Lablache  was  ensconced  in  his  basket  chair,  and  Hor- 
rocks was  at  the  great  man's  desk.  Neither  moved  as  their 
visitors  entered.  The  troubles  of  the  previous  night  were 
plainly  written  on  both  men's  faces.  There  was  a  haggard 
look  in  their  eyes,  and  a  generally  dishevelled  appearance 
about  their  dress.  Lablache  in  particular  looked  unwashed 
and  untidy.  Horrocks  looked  less  troubled,  and  there  was 
a  strong  air  of  determination  about  his  face. 

"  Poker  "  John  showed  no  niceness  in  broaching  the  sub- 
ject of  his  visit.  His  libations  had  roused  him  to  the  proper 
pitch  for  plain  speaking. 


THE  DAY  AFTER 

"Well,  what  happened  to  you  last  night,  Lablache?  I 
guess  you're  looking  about  as  blue  as  they  make  'em.  Say, 
I  thought  sure  Retief  was  going  to  do  for  you  when  I 
heard  about  it." 

"Ah.     Who  told  you  about  — about  me?" 

"  Your  clerk." 

"Rodgers?" 

"No,  Thompson." 

"  Ah!     Have  you  seen  Rodgers  at  all?  " 

"No."     John  turned  to  the  other  two.     "Have  you?" 

Neither  of  the  men  had  seen  the  clerk,  and  old  John 
turned  again  to  Lablache. 

"  Why,  what's  happened  to  Rodgers?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  haven't  seen  him  since  I  have  been  back 
—  that's  all." 

"Well,  now  tell  us  all  about  last  night,"  went  on  the 
rancher.  "  This  matter  is  going  to  be  cleared  up.  I  have 
been  thinking  of  a  vigilance  committee.  We  can't  do  bet- 
ter." 

Lablache  shook  his  great  head.  To  the  doctor  and 
"  Lord  "  Bill  there  seemed  to  be  an  utter  hopelessness  con- 
veyed in  the  motion. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell.  Neither  has  Horrocks.  What 
happened  last  night  concerns  ourselves  alone.  You  may 
possibly  hear  more  later  on,  but  the  telling  by  us  now  will 
do  no  good,  and  probably  a  lot  of  harm.  As  for  your 
vigilance  committee,  form  it  if  you  like,  but  I  doubt  that 
you  will  do  any  good  with  it." 

This  refusal  riled  the  old  rancher.  He  was  just  in  that 
condition  when  it  would  take  little  to  make  him  quarrel. 
He  was  about  to  rap  out  an  angry  retort  when  a  knock 
came  at  the  partition  door.  It  was  Thompson.  He  had 
come  to  say  that  the  troopers  had  returned,  and  wanted  to 
see  the  sergeant.  Also  to  say  that  Rodgers  was  with  them. 
Horrocks  immediately  went  out  to  see  them,  and,  before 
John  could  say  a  word,  Lablache  turned  on  him. 

"  Look  here,  John,  for  the  present  my  lips  are  sealed. 


238      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

It  is  Horrocks's  wish.  He  has  a  plan  which  he  wishes  to 
carry  out  quietly.  The  result  of  his  plan  largely  depends 
upon  silence.  Retief  seems  to  have  sources  of  information 
everywhere.  Walls  have  ears,  man.  Now,  I  shall  be  glad 
if  you  will  leave  me.  I  —  I  must  get  cleaned  up." 

John's  anger  died  within  him.  He  saw  that  Lablache 
was  upset.  He  looked  absolutely  ill.  The  old  man's  good 
nature  would  not  allow  him  to  press  this  companion  of  his 
ranching  life  further.  There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to 
do  but  leave. 

As  he  rose  to  go,  the  money-lender  unbent  still  further. 

"  I'll  see  you  later,  John,  I  may  then  be  able  to  tell  you 
more.  Perhaps  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that  Horrocks 
has  discovered  the  path  across  the  keg,  and  —  he's  going  to 
cross  it.  Good-by.  So  long,  Doc." 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  be  up  at  the  ranch.  Come  along, 
Bill.  Jacky,  I  expect,  is  waiting  breakfast  for  us." 

Lablache  heard  the  old  man's  remark  as  the  latter  passed 
out,  and  a  bitter  feeling  of  resentment  rose  within  him. 
He  felt  that  everything  was  against  him.  His  evil  nature, 
however,  would  not  let  him  remain  long  desponding.  He 
ground  his  teeth  and  cursed  bitterly.  It  had  only  wanted  a 
fillip  such  as  this  to  rouse  him  from  the  curious  lethargic 
hopelessness  into  which  the  terrible  night's  doings  had  cast 
him. 

The  moment  the  three  men  got  away  from  the  store, 
Doctor  Abbot  drew  attention  to  the  money-lender's  words. 

"  Going  to  cross  the  keg,  eh?  Well,  if  he's  really  dis- 
covered the  path  it's  certainly  the  best  thing  to  do.  He's  a 
sharp  man  is  Horrocks." 

"He's  a  fool!  " 

Bill's  words  were  so  emphatic  that  both  men  stared  at 
him.  If  they  were  startled  at  his  words,  they  were  still 
more  startled  at  the  set  expression  of  his  face.  Doctor 
Abbot  thought  he  had  never  seen  the  insouciant  Bill  so 
roused  out  of  himself. 

"Why  — how?" 


THE  DAY  AFTER  239 

"How?  I  tell  you,  man,  that  no  one  knows  that  path 
except  —  except  —  Retief,  and,  supposing  Horrocks  has  dis- 
covered it,  if  he  attempts  to  cross,  there  can  only  be  one 
result  to  his  mad  folly.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  the  man 
should  be  stopped.  It's  absolute  suicide  —  nothing  more 
nor  less." 

Something  in  the  emphasis  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  words  kept 
the  others  silent  until  the  doctor  left  them  at  his  home. 
Then  as  the  two  men  hurried  out  across  the  prairie  towards 
the  ranch,  the  conversation  turned  back  to  the  events  of  the 
previous  evening. 

At  the  ranch  they  found  Jacky  awaiting  the  old  man's 
return,  on  the  veranda.  She  was  surprised  when  she  saw 
who  was  with  him.  Her  surprise  was  a  pleasant  one,  how- 
ever, and  she  extended  her  hand  in  cordial  welcome. 

"  Come  right  in,  Bill.     Gee,  but  you  look  fit  —  and  slick." 

The  two  young  people  smiled  into  each  other's  faces, 
and  no  onlooker,  not  even  the  observant  Aunt  Margaret, 
could  have  detected  the  understanding  which  passed  in  that 
look.  Jacky  was  radiant.  Her  sweet,  dark  face  was  slightly 
flushed.  There  were  no  tell-tale  rings  about  her  dark  eyes. 
For  all  sign  she  gave  to  the  contrary  she  might  have  en- 
joyed the  full  measure  of  a  night's  rest.  Her  visit  to  the 
Breed  camp,  or,  for  that  matter,  any  other  adventures  which 
had  befallen  her  during  the  night,  had  left  no  trace  on  her 
beautiful  face. 

"  I've  brought  the  boy  up  to  feed,"  said  old  John.  "  I 
guess  we'll  get  right  to  it.  I've  got  a  '  twist '  on  me  that'll 
take  considerable  to  satisfy." 

The  meal  passed  pleasantly  enough.  The  conversation 
naturally  was  chiefly  confined  to  the  events  of  the  night. 
But  somehow  the  others  did  not  respond  very  eagerly  to 
the  old  rancher's  evident  interest  and  concern.  Most  of 
the  talking  —  most  of  the  theorizing  —  most  of  the  sugges- 
tions for  the  stamping  out  of  the  scourge,  Retief,  came 
from  him,  the  others  merely  contenting  themselves  with 
agreeing  to  his  suggestions  with  a  lack  of  interest  which, 


240      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

had  the  old  man  been  perfectly  sober,  he  could  not  have 
failed  to  observe.  However,  he  was  especially  obtuse  this 
morning,  and  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own  impracticable 
theories  and  suggestions  to  notice  the  others'  lack  of  in- 
terest. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  meal  the  rancher  took  himself 
off  down  to  the  settlement  again.  He  must  endeavor  to 
draw  Lablache,  he  said.  He  would  not  wait  for  him  to 
come  to  the  ranch. 

Jacky  and  Bill  went  out  on  to  the  veranda,  and  watched 
the  old  man  as  he  set  out  with  unsteady  gait  for  the  settle- 
ment. 

"  Bill,"  said  the  girl,  as  soon  as  her  uncle  was  out  of  ear- 
shot, "what  news?  " 

"Two  items  of  interest  One,  the  very  best,  and  the 
other  —  the  very  worst." 

"Which  means?" 

"No  one  has  the  least  suspicion  of  us;  and  Horrocks, 
the  madman,  intends  to  attempt  the  passage  of  the  keg." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  jaws  shut  with  a  snap  as  he  ceased  speak- 
ing. The  look  which  accompanied  his  last  announcement 
was  one  of  utter  dejection.  Jacky  did  not  reply  for  an  in- 
stant, her  great  eyes  had  taken  on  a  look  of  deep  anxiety  as 
she  gazed  towards  the  muskeg. 

"Bill,  can  nothing  be  done  to  stop  him?"  She  gazed 
appealingly  up  into  the  face  of  the  tall  figure  beside  her. 
"  He  is  a  brave  man,  if  foolish." 

"  That's  just  it,  dear.  He's  headstrong  and  means  to 
see  this  thing  through.  Had  I  thought  that  he  would  ever 
dream  of  contemplating  such  a  suicidal  feat  as  attempting 
that  path,  I'd  never  have  let  him  see  the  cattle  cross  last 
night.  My  God!  it  turns  me  sick  to  think  of  it." 

"  Hush,  Bill,  don't  talk  so  loud.  Do  you  think  any  one 
could  dissuade  him?  Lablache,  or  —  or  uncle,  for  in- 
stance." 

Bunning-Ford  shook  his  head.     His  look  was  troubled. 

"  Horrocks  is  not  the  man  to  be  turned  from  his  pur- 


THE  DAY  AFTER  241 

pose,"  he  replied.  "  And  besides,  Lablache  would  not  at- 
tempt such  a  thing.  He  is  too  keen  to  capture  —  Retief," 
with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  A  life  more  or  less  would  not  upset 
that  scoundrel's  resolve.  As  for  your  uncle,"  with  a  shrug, 
"  I  don't  think  he's  the  man  for  the  task.  No,  Jacky,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  sigh,  "  we  must  let  things  take  their  course 
now.  We  have  embarked  on  this  business.  We  mustn't 
weaken.  His  blood  be  upon  his  own  head." 

They  relapsed  into  silence  for  some  moments.  "  Lord  " 
Bill  lit  a  cigarette,  and  leant  himself  against  one  of  the 
veranda  posts.  He  was  worried  at  the  turn  events  had 
taken.  He  had  no  grudge  against  Horrocks;  the  man  was 
but  doing  his  duty.  But  his  meditated  attempt  he  con- 
sidered to  be  an  exaggerated  sense  of  that  duty.  Presently 
he  spoke  again. 

"  Jacky  —  do  you  know,  I  feel  that  somehow  the  end  of 
this  business  is  approaching.  What  the  end  is  to  be  I  can- 
not foretell.  One  thing,  however,  is  clear.  Sooner  or  later 
we  must  run  foul  of  people,  and  when  that  occurs  —  well," 
throwing  his  cigarette  from  him  viciously,  "  it  simply  means 
shooting.  And  — " 

"  Yes,  Bill,  I  know  what  you  would  say.  Shooting  means 
killing,  killing  means  murder,  and  murder  means  swinging. 
You're  right,  but,"  and  the  girl's  eyes  began  to  blaze,  "  be- 
fore that,  Lablache  must  go  under.  Whatever  happens,  Bill, 
before  we  decorate  any  tree  with  our  bodies,  if  our  object  is 
not  already  obtained,  I'll  shoot  him  with  my  own  pistol. 
I  guess  we're  embarked  on  a  game  that  we're  going  to  see 
through." 

"  That's  so.  We'll  see  it  through.  Do  you  know  what 
stock  we've  taken,  all  told?  Close  on  twenty  thousand 
head,  and  —  all  Lablache's.  They're  snug  over  at  *  Bad 
Man's'  Hollow,  and  a  tidy  fine  bunch  they  are.  The  di- 
vision with  the  boys  is  a  twentieth  each,  and  the  balance 
is  ours.  Our  share  is  ten  thousand."  He  ceased  speaking. 
Then  presently  he  went  on,  harking  back  to  the  subject  of 
Horrocks.  "  I  wish  that  man  could  be  stayed.  His  failure 


242      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

must  precipitate  matters.  Should  he  drown,  as  he  surely 
will,  the  whole  countryside  will  join  in  the  hue  and  cry.  It 
is  only  his  presence  here  that  keeps  the  settlers  in  check. 
Well,  so  be  it.  It's  a  pity.  But  I'm  not  going  to  swing. 
They'll  never  take  me  alive." 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  Bill,  you'll  not  be  alone,  I  guess. 
You  can  gamble  your  soul,  when  it  comes  to  open  warfare 
I'm  with  you,  an'  I  guess  I  can  shoot  straight." 

Bill  looked  at  the  girl  in  astonishment.  He  noted  the 
keen  deep  eyes,  the  set  little  mouth.  The  fearless  expres- 
sion on  her  beautiful  face.  Her  words  had  fairly  taken  his 
breath  away,  but  he  saw  that  she  had  meant  what  she  said. 

"  No,  no,  girlie.  No  one  will  suspect  you.  Besides,  this 
is  my  affair.  You  have  your  uncle." 

"  Say,  boy,  I  love  my  uncle  —  I  love  him  real  well.  I'm 
working  for  him,  we  both  are  —  and  we'll  work  for  him  to 
the  last.  But  our  work  together  has  taught  me  something, 
Bill,  and  when  I  cotton  to  teaching  there's  nothing  that  can 
knock  what  I  learn  out  of  my  head.  I've  just  learned  to 
love  you,  Bill.  And,  as  the  Bible  says,  old  Uncle  John's 
got  to  take  second  place.  That's  all.  If  you  go  under  — 
well,  I  guess  I'll  go  under  too." 

Jacky  gave  her  lover  no  chance  to  reply.  As  he  opened 
his  lips  to  expostulate  and  took  a  step  towards  her  she 
darted  away,  and  disappeared  into  the  sitting-room.  He 
followed  her  in,  but  the  room  was  empty. 

He  paused.     Then  a  smile  spread  over  his  face. 

"  I  don't  fancy  we  shall  go  under,  little  woman,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  at  least,  not  if  I  can  help  it." 

He  turned  back  to  the  veranda  and  strolled  away  to- 
wards the  settlement. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  PAW   OF  THE  CAT 

LABLACHE  was  alone.  Horrocks  had  left  him  to  set  out  on 
his  final  effort  to  discover  Retief's  hiding-place.  The  great 
man  was  eagerly  waiting  for  his  return.  Evening  was  draw- 
ing on  and  the  officer  had  not  yet  put  in  an  appearance, 
neither  had  the  money-lender  received  any  word  from  him. 
In  consequence  he  was  beginning  to  hope  that  Horrocks  had 
succeeded. 

All  day  the  wretched  man  had  been  tortured  by  horrid 
fears.  And,  as  time  passed  and  evening  drew  on,  his  mood 
became  almost  a  panic.  The  money-lender  was  in  a  deplor- 
able state  of  mind;  his  nerves  were  shaken,  and  he  was 
racked  by  a  dread  of  he  scarce  knew  what.  What  he  had 
gone  through  the  night  before  had  driven  him  to  the  verge 
of  mental  collapse.  No  bodily  injury  could  have  thus  re- 
duced him;  for,  whatever  might  have  been  his  failings, 
physical  cowardice  was  not  amongst  the  number.  Any 
moral  weakness  which  might  have  been  his  had  been  so 
obscured  by  long  years  of  success  and  prosperity,  that  no 
one  knowing  him  would  have  believed  him  to  be  so  af- 
flicted. No,  in  spite  of  his  present  condition  Lablache  was 
a  strong  man. 

But  the  frightful  mental  torture  he  had  endured  at 
Retief's  hands  had  told  its  tale.  The  attack  of  the  last 
twenty-four  hours  had  been  made  against  him  alone;  at 
least,  so  Lablache  understood  it.  Retief's  efforts  were  only 
in  his  direction;  the  raider  had  robbed  him  of  twenty 
thousand  head  of  cattle;  he  had  burnt  his  beautiful  ranch 
out,  in  sheer  wantonness  it  seemed  to  the  despairing  man; 
what  then  would  be  his  next  move  if  he  were  not  stopped? 

243 


244      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

What  else  was  there  of  his  —  Lablache's —  that  the  Breed 
could  attack?     His  store  —  yes  —  yes;  his  store!     That  was 
all  that  was  left  of  his  property  in  Foss  River.     And  then  — 
what  then?    There  was  nothing  after  that,  except,  perhaps 
—  except  his  life. 

Lablache  stirred  in  his  seat  and  wheezed  heavily  as  he 
arrived  at  this  conclusion.  His  horrified  thoughts  were  ex- 
pressed in  the  look  of  fear  that  was  in  his  lashless  eyes. 

His  life  —  yes!  That  must  be  the  raider's  culminating 
object.  Or  would  he  leave  him  that,  so  that  he  might 
further  torture  him  by  burning  him  out  of  Calford.  He 
pondered  fearfully,  and  hard,  practical  as  was  his  nature, 
the  money-lender  allowed  his  imagination  to  run  riot  over 
possibilities  which  surely  his  cooler  judgment  would  have 
scoffed  at 

Lablache  rose  hurriedly  from  his  chair.  It  only  wanted 
a  quarter  to  five.  Putting  his  head  through  the  partition 
doorway  he  ordered  his  astonished  clerks  to  close  up.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  —  dare  not  keep  the  store  open  longer. 
Then  he  inspected  the  private  door  of  his  office.  The 
spring  catch  was  fast.  He  locked  his  safe.  All  the  time 
he  moved  about  fearfully  —  like  some  hunted  criminal.  At 
last  he  returned  to  his  seat.  His  bilious  eyes  roved  over 
the  various  objects  in  the  room.  A  hunted  look  was  in 
them.  His  mind  seemed  fixed  on  one  thought  alone  —  the 
coming  of  Retief. 

After  this  he  grew  more  calm.  Perhaps  the  knowledge 
that  the  store  was  secure  now  against  any  intruder  helped 
to  steady  his  nerves.  Then  he  started  —  was  the  store 
secure?  He  rose  again  and  went  to  the  window  to  put  up 
the  shutter.  He  gazed  out  towards  the  Foss  River  Ranch, 
and,  as  he  gazed,  he  saw  some  one  riding  fast  towards  the 
settlement 

The  horseman  came  nearer;  the  sight  fascinated  the  great 
man.  Now  the  traveler  had  reached  the  market  place,  and 
was  coming  on  towards  the  store.  Suddenly  the  money- 
lender recognized  in  the  horseman  one  of  Horrocks's  troop- 


THE  PAW  OF  THE  CAT  245 

ers,  mounted  on  a  horse  from  John  Allandale's  stable.  A 
wild  hope  leapt  up  in  his  heart.  Then,  as  the  man  drew 
nearer  and  Lablache  saw  the  horrified  expression  of  his  face, 
hope  went  from  him,  and  he  feared  the  worst. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  ceased  outside  the  office  door. 
Lablache  stepped  heavily  forward  and  threw  it  open.  He 
stood  framed  in  the  doorway  as  the  man  gasped  out  his 
terrible  news. 

"  He's  drowned,  sir,  drowned  before  our  eyes.  We  tried, 
but  couldn't  save  him.  He  would  go,  sir;  we  tried  to 
persuade  him,  but  he  would  go.  No  more  than  fifty  yards 
from  the  bank,  and  then  down  he  went.  He  was  out  of 
sight  in  two  minutes.  It  was  horrible,  sir,  and  him  never 
uttered  a  sound.  I'm  going  in  to  Stormy  Cloud  to  report 
an'  get  instructions.  Anything  I  can  do,  sir?  " 

So  the  worst  was  realized.  For  the  moment  the  money- 
lender could  find  no  words.  His  tongue  clove  to  the  roof 
of  his  mouth.  His  last  hope  —  the  last  barrier  between  him 
and  the  man  whom  he  considered  his  arch  enemy,  Retief, 
seemed  to  have  been  shattered.  He  thought  not  of  the 
horror  of  the  policeman's  drowning;  he  felt  no  sorrow  at 
the  reckless  man's  ghastly  end.  He  merely  thought  of  him- 
self. He  saw  only  how  the  man's  death  affected  his  personal 
interests.  At  last  he  gurgled  out  some  words.  He  scarce 
knew  what  he  said. 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  done.  Yes  —  no  —  yes,  you'd 
better  go  up  to  the  Allandales,"  he  went  on  uncertainly. 
"  They'll  send  a  rescue  party." 

The  trooper  dashed  off  and  Lablache  securely  fastened 
the  door.  Then  he  put  the  shutter  over  the  window,  and, 
notwithstanding  that  it  was  broad  daylight  still,  he  lit  the 
lamp. 

Once  more  he  returned  to  his  protesting  chair,  into  which 
he  almost  fell.  To  him  this  last  catastrophe  was  as  the 
last  straw.  What  was  now  to  become  of  the  settlement; 
what  was  to  become  of  him?  Horrocks  gone;  the  troopers 
withdrawn,  or,  at  least,  without  a  guiding  hand,  what  might 


246      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Retief  not  be  free  to  do  while  the  settlement  awaited  the 
coming  of  a  fresh  detachment  of  police.  He  impotently 
cursed  the  raider.  The  craven  weakness,  induced  by  his 
condition  of  nervous  prostration,  was  almost  pitiable.  All 
the  selfishness  which  practically  monopolized  his  entire  na- 
ture displayed  itself  in  his  terror.  He  cared  nothing  for 
others.  He  believed  that  Retief  was  at  war  with  him  alone. 
He  believed  that  the  raider  sought  only  his  wealth  —  his 
wealth  which  his  years  of  hard  work  and  unscrupulous 
methods  had  laboriously  piled  up  —  the  wealth  he  loved 
and  lived  for  —  the  wealth  which  was  to  him  as  a  god.  He 
thought  of  all  he  had  already  lost.  He  counted  it  up  in 
thousands,  and  his  eyes  grew  wide  with  horror  and  despair 
as  the  figures  mounted  up,  up,  until  they  represented  a  great 
fortune. 

The  long-suffering  chair  creaked  under  him  as  he  flung 
himself  back  in  it,  his  pasty,  heavy-jowled  face  was  ghastly 
under  the  lash  of  despairing  thought.  Only  a  miser,  one  of 
those  wretched  creatures  who  live  only  for  the  contemplation 
of  their  hoarded  wealth,  could  understand  the  feelings  of 
the  miserable  man  as  he  lay  back  in  his  chair. 

The  man  who  had  thus  reduced  the  money-lender  must 
have  understood  his  nature  as  did  the  inquisitors  of  old 
understand  the  weaknesses  of  their  victims.  For  surely  he 
could  have  found  no  other  vulnerable  spot  in  the  great 
man's  composition. 

The  first  shock  of  the  trooper's  news  began  to  pass. 
Lablache's  mind  began  to  balance  itself  again.  Such  a 
state  of  nerves  as  was  his  could  not  last  and  the  man  remain 
sane.  Possibly  the  thought  that  he  was  still  a  rich  man 
came  to  his  aid.  Possibly  the  thought  of  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  dollars  sunk  in  perfect  securities,  in  various  Eu- 
ropean centers,  toned  down  the  grievousness  of  his  losses. 
Whatever  it  was  he  grew  calmer,  and  with  calmness  his 
scheming  nature  reasserted  itself. 

He  moved  from  his  seat  and  helped  himself  liberally  to 
the  whisky  which  was  in  his  cabinet.  He  needed  the  gen- 


THE  PAW  OF  THE  CAT  247 

erous  spirit,  and  drank  it  off  at  a  gulp.  His  chair  behind 
him  creaked.  He  started.  His  ashen  face  became  more 
ghastly  in  its  hue.  He  looked  round  fearfully.  Then  he 
understood,  and  he  wheezed  heavily.  Once  more  he  sat 
himself  down,  and  the  warming  spirit  steadily  did  its  work. 

Suddenly  his  mind  leapt  forward,  as  it  were,  from  its 
stagnatory  condition  of  abject  fear.  It  traveled  swiftly, 
urged  by  a  pursuing  dread  over  plans  for  the  future.  The 
guiding  star  of  his  thought  was  safety.  At  all  costs  he 
must  find  safety  for  his  property  and  himself.  So  long  as 
Retief  was  at  large  there  could  be  no  safety  for  him  in  Foss 
River.  He  must  get  away.  He  must  get  away,  bearing 
with  him  the  fruits  which  yet  remained  to  him  of  his  life's 
toil.  He  had  contemplated  retiring  before.  His  retirement 
from  business  would  mean  ruin  to  many  of  those  who  had 
borrowed  from  him  he  knew,  and  to  those  on  whose  property 
he  held  mortgages  as  security.  But  that  could  not  be  helped. 
He  was  not  going  to  allow  himself  to  suffer  through  what 
he  considered  any  humanitarian  weakness.  Yes,  he  would 
retire  —  get  away  from  the  reach  of  Retief  and  his  compan- 
ions, and  —  ah! 

His  thoughts  merged  into  another  channel  —  a  channel 
which,  under  the  stress  of  his  terrors,  had  for  the  moment 
been  obscured.  He  suddenly  thought  of  the  Allandales. 
Here  for  the  instant  was  a  stumbling  block.  Or  should  he 
renounce  his  passion  for  Jacky?  He  drummed  thought- 
fully with  his  finger-tips  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

No,  why  should  he  give  her  up?  Something  of  his  old 
nerve  was  returning.  He  held  all  the  cards.  He  knew  he 
could,  by  foreclosing,  ruin  "  Poker  "  John.  Why  should  he 
give  the  girl  up,  and  see  her  calmly  secured  by  that  cursed 
Bunning-Ford?  His  bilious  eyes  half  closed  and  his  sparse 
eyebrows  drew  together  in  a  deep  concentration  of  thought. 
Then  presently  his  forehead  smoothed,  and  his  lashless  eyes 
gleamed  wickedly.  He  rose  heavily  to  his  feet  and  labored 
to  and  fro  across  the  floor,  with  his  beefy  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back. 


248      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Excellent  —  excellent,"  he  muttered.  "  The  devil  could 
not  have  designed  it  better."  There  was  a  grim,  evil  smile 
about  his  mouth.  "  Yes,  a  game  —  a  game.  It  will  tickle 
old  John,  and  will  carry  out  my  purpose.  The  mortgages 
which  I  hold  on  his  property  are  nothing  to  me.  Most  are 
gambling  debts.  For  the  rest  the  interest  has  covered  the 
principal.  I  have  seen  to  that.  But  he  is  in  arrears  now. 
Good  —  good.  Their  abandonment  represents  no  loss  to 
me  —  ha,  ha."  He  chuckled  mirthlessly.  "  A  little  game 
—  a  gentle  flutter,  friend  John,  and  the  stakes  all  in  my 
favor.  But  I  do  not  intend  to  lose.  Oh,  no.  The  girl 
might  outwit  me  if  I  lost.  I  shall  win,  and  on  my  wedding 
day  I  shall  be  magnanimous  —  good."  He  unclasped  his 
hands  and  rubbed  them  together  gleefully. 

"The  uncle's  consent  —  his  persuasion.  She  will  do  as 
he  wishes  or  —  ruin.  It  is  capital  —  a  flawless  scheme. 
And  then  to  leave  Foss  River  forever.  God,  but  I  shall 
be  glad,"  with  a  return  to  his  nervous  dread.  He  looked 
about  him,  eagerly,  his  great  paunchy  figure  pictured 
grotesquely  beneath  the  pasty,  fearful  face. 

"  Now  to  see  John,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"  How  —  how  ?  I  wish  I  could  get  him  here.  It  would  be 
better  here.  There  would  be  no  chance  of  listening  ears. 
Besides,  there  is  the  whisky."  He  paused  again  thinking. 
"  Yes,"  he  muttered  presently.  "  Delay  would  be  bad.  I 
must  not  give  my  enemy  time.  At  once  —  at  once.  Noth- 
ing like  doing  things  at  once.  I  must  go  to  John.  But  — 
and  he  looked  dubiously  at  the  darkened  window  — "  when 
I  return  it  will  be  dark."  He  picked  up  his  other  revolver 
and  slipped  it  into  his  breast  pocket.  "  Yes,  yes,  I  am 
getting  foolish  —  old.  Come  along,  my  friend,  we  will 

go." 

He  seized  his  hat  and  went  to  the  office  door.  He  paused 
with  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  gave  one  final  look  round, 
then  he  turned  the  spring  with  a  great  show  of  determina- 
tion and  passed  out. 

It  was  a  different  man  who  left  the  little  office  on  that 


THE  PAW  OF  THE  CAT  249 

evening  to  the  man  who  had  for  so  many  years  governed 
the  destinies  of  the  smaller  ranching  world  of  the  Foss 
River  district.  He  had  truly  said  that  he  was  getting  old 
—  but  he  did  not  quite  realize  how  old.  His  enemies  had 
done  their  work  only  too  well.  The  terrible  consequences 
of  the  night  of  terror  were  to  have  far-reaching  results. 

The  money-lender  set  out  for  the  ranch  bristling  with 
eagerness  to  put  into  execution  his  hastily  conceived  plan. 

He  found  the  old  rancher  in  his  sanctum.  He  was  alone 
brooding  over  the  calamity  which  had  befallen  the  police- 
officer,  and  stimulating  his  thought  with  silent  "  nippings  " 
at  the  whisky  bottle.  He  was  in  a  semi-maudlin  condition 
when  the  money-lender  entered,  and  greeted  his  visitor  with 
almost  childish  effusion. 

Lablache  saw  and  understood,  and  a  sense  of  satisfaction 
came  to  him.  He  hoped  his  task  would  be  easier  than  he 
had  anticipated.  His  evil  nature  rose  to  the  occasion,  and, 
for  the  moment,  his  own  troubles  and  fears  were  forgotten. 
There  was  a  cat-like  licking  of  the  lips  as  he  contemplated 
the  pitiful  picture  before  him. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  old  John,  looking  into  the  other's  face  with 
a  pair  of  bloodshot  eyes,  as  he  re-seated  himself  after  rising 
to  greet  his  visitor.  "  Well,  poor  Horrocks  has  gone  —  gone, 
a  victim  to  his  sense  of  duty.  I  guess,  Lablache,  there  are 
few  men  would  have  shown  his  grit." 

"Grit!  Yes,  that's  so."  The  money-lender  had  been 
about  to  say  "  folly,"  but  he  checked  himself.  He  did  not 
want  to  offend  "  Poker  "  John  —  now. 

"  Yes.  The  poor  fellow  was  too  good  for  his  work," 
he  went  on,  in  tones  of  commiseration.  "  'Tis  indeed  a 
catastrophe,  John.  And  we  are  the  losers  by  it.  I  regret 
now  that  I  did  not  altogether  agree  with  him  when  he  first 
came  amongst  us." 

John  wagged  his  head.  He  looked  to  be  near  weeping. 
His  companion's  sympathetic  tone  was  almost  too  much  for 
his  whisky-laden  heart.  But  Lablache  had  not  come  here 
to  discuss  Horrocks,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  sympathize  with 


250      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  gray-headed  wreck  of  manhood  before  him.  He  wished 
to  find  out  first  of  all  if  anybody  was  about  whom  his 
plans  concerned,  and  then  to  force  his  proposition  upon  his 
old  companion.  He  carefully  led  the  rancher  to  talk  of 
other  things. 

"The  man  has  gone  into  Stormy  Cloud  to  report?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  who  are  they  likely  to  send  down  in  place  —  ah  — 
of  the  unfortunate  Horrocks,  think  you?" 

"  Can't  say.  I  guess  they'll  send  a  good  man.  I've  asked 
for  more  men." 

The  old  man  roused  somewhat  from  his  maudlin  state. 

"  Ah,  that's  a  good  move,  John,"  said  the  money-lender. 
"  What  does  Jacky  think  about  —  these  things  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  carelessly.  John  yawned,  and 
poured  out  a  "  tot "  of  whisky  for  his  friend. 

"  Guess  I  haven't  seen  the  child  since  breakfast.  She 
seemed  to  take  it  badly  enough  then." 

"Thanks.  Aren't  you  going  to  have  one?"  as  John 
pushed  the  glass  over  to  the  other. 

"  Why,  yes,  man.     Never  shirk  my  liquor." 

He  dashed  a  quantity  of  raw  spirit  into  his  glass  and 
drank  it  off.  Lablache  looked  on  with  intense  satisfaction. 
John  rose  unsteadily,  and,  supporting  himself  against  the 
furniture  as  he  went,  moved  over  to  the  French  window 
and  closed  it.  Then  he  lurched  heavily  back  into  his  chair 
again.  His  eyes  half  closed.  But  he  roused  at  the  sound 
of  Lablache's  guttural  tones. 

"  John,  old  friend."  Muddled  as  he  was  the  rancher 
started  at  the  term.  "  I've  come  to  have  a  long  chat  with 
you.  This  morning  I  could  not  talk.  I  was  too  broken  up 
—  too,  too  ill.  Now  listen  and  you  shall  hear  of  all  that 
happened  last  night,  and  then  you  will  the  better  be  able 
to  judge  of  the  wisdom  of  my  decision." 

John  listened  while  Lablache  told  his  tale.  The  money- 
lender embellished  the  facts  slightly  so  as  the  further  to 
emphasize  them.  Then,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  story  of 


THE  PAW  OF  THE  CAT  251 

his  night's  doings,  he  went  on  to  matters  which  concerned 
his  future. 

"  Yes,  John,  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  get  out 
of  the  country.  Mind  this  is  no  sudden  determination, 
but  a  conclusion  I  have  long  arrived  at.  These  disastrous 
occurrences  have  merely  hastened  my  plans.  I  am  not  so 
young  as  I  was,  you  know,"  with  an  attempt  at  lightness, 
"  I  simply  dare  not  stay.  I  fear  that  Retief  will  soon  at- 
tempt my  life." 

He  sighed  and  looked  for  sympathy.  Old  John  seemed 
too  amazed  to  respond.  He  had  never  realized  that  the 
raider's  efforts  were  solely  directed  against  Lablache.  The 
money-lender  went  on. 

"  And  that  is  why  I  have  come  to  you,  my  oldest  friend. 
I  feel  you  should  be  the  first  to  know,  for  with  no  one  else 
in  Foss  River  have  I  lived  in  such  perfect  harmony.  And, 
besides,  you  are  the  most  interested." 

The  latter  was  in  the  tone  of  an  afterthought.  Strangely 
enough  the  careless  way  in  which  it  was  spoken  carried  the 
words  well  home  to  the  rancher's  muddled  brain. 

"Interested?"  he  echoed  blankly. 

"Why,  yes.  Certainly,  you  are  the  most  interested.  I 
mean  from  a  monetary  point  of  view.  You  see,  the  wind- 
ing up  of  my  business  will  entail  the  settling  up  of  —  er  — 
my  books." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  rancher,  with  doubtful  understanding. 

"  Then  —  er  —  you  take  my  meaning  as  to  how  —  er  — 
how  you  are  interested." 

"  You  mean  my  arrears  of  interest,"  said  the  gray  headed 
old  man  dazedly. 

"  Just  so.     You  will  have  to  meet  your  liabilities  to  me." 

"But  —  but  —  man."  The  rancher  spluttered  for  words 
to  express  himself.  This  was  the  money-lender's  oppor- 
tunity, and  he  seized  it. 

"  You  see,  John,  in  retiring  from  business  I  am  not  al- 
together a  free  agent.  My  affairs  are  so  mixed  up  with  the 
affairs  of  the  Calford  Trust  and  Loan  Co.  The  period  of 


252      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

one  of  your  mortgages,  for  instance  —  the  heaviest  by  the 
way  —  has  long  expired.  It  has  not  been  renewed.  The 
interest  is  in  arrears.  This  mortgage  was  arranged  by  me 
jointly  with  the  Calford  Trust  and  Loan  Co.  When  I 
retire  it  will  have  to  be  settled  up.  Being  my  friend  I  have 
not  troubled  you,  but  doubtless  the  company  will  have  no 
sentiment  about  it.  As  to  the  others  —  they  are  debts  of 
honor.  I  am  afraid  these  things  will  have  to  be  settled, 
John.  You  will  of  course  be  able  to  meet  them." 

"  God,  man,  but  I  can't,"  old  John  exclaimed.  "  I  tell 
you  I  can't,"  he  reiterated  in  a  despairing  voice. 

Lablache  shrugged  his  obese  shoulders. 

"That  is  unfortunate." 

"  But,  Lablache,"  said  the  rancher,  gazing  with  drunken 
earnestness  into  the  other's  face,  "  you  will  not  press  me?  " 

"  Why  no,  John,  of  course  not  —  as  far  as  I  am  person- 
ally concerned.  I  have  known  you  too  long  and  have  too 
much  regard  for  you  and  —  yours.  No,  no,  John ;  of  course 
I  am  a  business  man,  but  I  am  still  your  friend.  Friend 
—  eh,  John  —  your  friend." 

The  rancher  looked  relieved,  and  helped  himself  to  more 
whisky.  Lablache  joined  him  and  they  silently  drank. 
"  Poker  "  John  set  his  empty  glass  down  first. 

"  Now  Lablache,  about  these  lia-liabilities,"  he  said  with 
a  hiccup.  "What  is  to  be  done?  " 

"  Well,  John,  we  are  friends  of  such  old  standing  that 
I  don't  like  to  retire  from  business  and  leave  you  incon- 
venienced by  the  process.  Perhaps  there  is  a  way  by  which 
I  can  help  you.  I  am  very  wealthy  —  and  wealth  is  a 
great  power  —  a  very  great  power  even  in  this  wild  region. 
Now,  suppose  I  make  a  proposition  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"  POKER  "   JOHN   ACCEPTS 
"AH!" 

There  was  a  tone  of  drunken  suspicion  about  the  exclama- 
tion which  was  not  lost  on  Lablache. 

"  If  you  were  suddenly  called  upon  to  meet  your  liabilities 
to  me,  John,"  said  the  money-lender,  smiling,  "  how  would  it 
fix  you?" 

"  It  would  mean  ruin,"  replied  John,  hoarsely. 

Lablache  cleared  his  throat  and  snorted.  Then  he  smiled 
benignly  upon  his  old  companion. 

"  That's  just  what  I  thought.  Well,  you're  not  going  to 
be  ruined  —  by  me.  I'm  going  to  burn  the  mortgages  and 
settle  with  the  Calford  Trust  and  Loan  Co.  myself — " 

The  rancher  feared  to  trust  his  ears. 

"  That  is  if  you  are  willing  to  do  something  for  me." 

In  his  eager  hope  John  Allandale  had  leant  forward  so 
as  not  to  miss  a  word  the  other  said.  Now,  however,  he 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  Some  suspicion  was  in 
his  mind.  It  might  have  been  intuition.  He  knew  La- 
blache well.  He  laughed  cynically. 

"  That's  more  like  you,"  he  said  roughly. 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  money-lender;  the  smile  vanished 
from  his  lips.  "  Fair  play's  good  medicine.  We'll  wipe  out 
your  debts  if  you'll  tell  your  niece  that  you  want  her  to 
marry  me." 

"I'll  —  I'll— " 

"  Hold  on,  John,"  with  upraised  hand,  as  the  old  man 
purpled  with  rage  and  started  to  shout. 

"  I'll  see  you  damned  first!  "  The  rancher  had  lurched 
on  to  his  feet  and  his  fist  came  down  with  a  crash  upon 
the  corner  of  the  table.  Lablache  remained  unmoved. 

253 


254      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Tut  tut,  man;  now  listen  to  me."  The  old  man  towered 
unsteadily  over  him.  "  I  can't  understand  your  antipathy 
to  me  as  a  husband  for  your  niece.  Give  your  consent  — 
she'll  do  it  for  you  —  and,  on  my  wedding  day,  I  burn  those 
mortgages  and  I'll  settle  100,000  dollars  upon  Jacky.  Be- 
sides this  I'll  put  200,000  dollars  into  your  ranch  to  develop 
it,  and  only  ask  ten  per  cent,  of  the  profits.  Can  I  speak 
fairer?  That  girl  of  yours  is  a  good  girl,  John;  too  good  to 
kick  about  the  prairie.  I'll  make  her  a  good  husband.  She 
shall  do  as  she  pleases,  live  where  she  likes.  You 
can  always  be  with  us  if  you  choose.  It's  no  use  being 
riled,  John,  I'm  making  an  honest  proposition." 

The  rancher  calmed.  In  the  face  of  such  a  generous 
proposal  he  could  not  insult  Lablache.  He  was  determined, 
however.  It  was  strange,  perhaps,  that  any  suggestion  for 
his  influence  to  be  used  in  his  niece's  choice  of  a  husband 
should  have  such  a  violent  effect  upon  him.  But  "  Poker  " 
John  was  a  curious  mixture  of  weakness  and  honor.  He 
loved  his  niece  with  a  doting  affection.  She  was  the  apple 
of  his  eye.  To  him  the  thought  of  personal  benefit  at  the 
cost  of  her  happiness  was  a  sacrilege.  Lablache  understood 
this.  He  knew  that  on  this  point  the  rancher's  feelings 
amounted  to  little  short  of  mania.  And  yet  he  persisted. 
John's  nature  was  purely  obstinate,  and  obstinacy  is  weak- 
ness. The  money-lender  knew  that  obstinacy  could  be 
broken  down  by  steady  determination.  However,  time,  with 
him,  was  now  everything.  He  must  clinch  the  deal  with  as 
little  delay  as  possible  if  he  would  escape  from  Foss  River 
and  the  ruinous  attacks  of  Retief.  This  thought  was  ever 
present  with  him  and  urged  him  to  press  the  old  man  hard. 
If  John  Allandale  would  not  be  reasonable,  he,  Lablache, 
must  force  an  acceptance  of  his  terms  from  him. 

The  rancher  was  mollified.  His  dulled  brain  suddenly 
saw  a  loop-hole  of  escape. 

"  I  guess  you  mean  well  enough,  Lablache.  But  say,  ask 
the  child  yourself." 

The  other  shook  his  massive  head. 


"  POKER  "  JOHN  ACCEPTS  255 

"  I  have  —  she  has  refused." 

"  Then  why  in  thunder  do  you  come  to  me?  " 

The  angry  light  was  again  in  the  rancher's  blood-shot  eyes. 

"  Why  ?  Because  she  will  marry  me  if  you  choose.  She 
can't  refuse  —  she  dare  not." 

"Then,  by  God,  I'll  refuse  for  her—" 

He  paused  disconcertedly  in  his  wrath.  Lablache's  cold 
eyes  fixed  him  with  their  icy  stare. 

;<  Very  well,  John,"  said  Lablache,  with  a  contemptuous 
shrug.  "  You  know  the  inevitable  result  of  such  a  hasty 
decision.  It  means  ruin  to  you  —  beggary  to  that  poor 
child."  His  teeth  snapped  viciously.  Then  he  smiled  with 
his  mouth.  "  I  can  only  put  your  de  —  refusal  down  to 
utter,  unworthy  selfishness." 

"  Not  selfishness,  Lablache  —  not  that.  I  would  sacrifice 
everything  in  the  world  for  that  child — " 

"  Except  your  own  pleasure  —  your  own  personal  com- 
forts. Bah,  man !  "  with  scathing  contempt,  "  your  object 
must  be  plain  to  the  veriest  fool.  You  do  not  wish  to  lose 
her.  You  fear  to  lose  your  best  servant  lest  in  consequence 
you  find  the  work  of  the  ranch  thrust  upon  your  own 
hands.  You  would  have  no  time  to  indulge  your  love  of 
play.  You  would  no  longer  be  able  to  spend  three  parts  of 
your  time  in  *  old  man '  Smith's  filthy  bar.  Your  conduct 
is  laudable,  John  —  it  is  worthy  of  you." 

Lablache  had  expected  another  outburst  of  anger,  but 
John  only  leered  in  response  to  the  other's  contempt.  Drunk 
as  he  was,  the  rancher  saw  the  absurdity  of  the  attack. 

"  Piffle !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Now  see,  when  Jacky  comes 
in  you  shall  hear  what  she  has  to  say." 

"  Poker  "  John  smiled  with  satisfaction  at  his  own  'cute- 
ness.  He  felt  that  he  had  outwitted  the  astute  usurer.  His 
simplicity,  however,  was  of  an  infantile  order. 

"  That  would  be  useless."  Lablache  did  not  want  to  be 
confronted  with  Jacky.  "  My  mind  is  quite  made  up.  The 
Calford  Trust  will  begin  proceedings  at  once,  unless  — " 

"  Unless  I  give  my  consent." 


256      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

The  satisfaction  had  suddenly  died  out  of  John  Allan- 
dale's  face.  Even  in  his  maudlin  condition  he  understood 
the  relentless  purpose  which  backed  the  money-lender's  pro- 
posal. To  his  credit  be  it  said  that  he  was  thinking  only 
of  Jacky  —  the  one  being  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  all 
else  in  the  world.  For  himself  he  had  no  thought  —  he  did 
not  care  what  happened.  But  he  longed  to  save  his  niece 
from  the  threatened  catastrophe.  His  seared  old  face  worked 
in  his  distress.  Lablache  beheld  the  sign,  and  knew  that 
he  was  weakening. 

"  Why  force  me  to  extremities,  John  ?  "  he  said  presently. 
"  If  you  would  only  be  reasonable,  I  feel  sure  you  would 
have  no  matter  for  regret.  Now,  suppose  I  went  a  step 
further." 

"  No  —  no,"  weakly.  There  followed  a  pause.  John 
Allandale  avoided  the  other's  eyes.  To  the  old  man  the 
silence  of  the  room  became  intolerable.  He  opened  his  lips 
to  speak.  Then  he  closed  them  —  only  to  open  them  again. 
"  But  —  but  what  step  do  you  propose?  Is  —  is  it  honest?  " 

"  Perfectly."  Lablache  was  smiling  in  that  indulgent 
manner  he  knew  so  well  how  to  assume.  "  And  it  might 
appeal  to  you.  Pressure  is  a  thing  I  hate.  Now  —  suppose 
we  leave  the  matter  to  —  to  chance." 

"  Chance?  "  The  rancher  questioned  the  other  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Yes  —  why  not  ?  "  The  money-lender's  smile  broadened 
and  he  leaned  forward  to  impress  his  hearer  the  more  surely. 
"  A  little  game  —  a  game  of  poker,  eh  ?  " 

John  Allandale  shook  his  head.  He  failed  to  grasp  the 
other's  meaning. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  struggling  with  the  liquor 
which  fogged  his  dull  brain. 

"No,  of  course  you  don't,"  easily.  "Now  listen  to  me 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean."  The  money-lender  spoke 
as  though  addressing  a  wayward  child.  "  The  stakes  shall 
be  my  terms  against  your  influence  with  Jacky.  If  you  win 
you  keep  your  girl,  and  I  cancel  your  mortgages;  if  I  win 


"  POKER  "  JOHN  ACCEPTS  257 

I  marry  your  girl  under  the  conditions  I  have  already  of- 
fered. It's  wholly  an  arrangement  for  your  benefit.  All 
I  can  possibly  gain  is  your  girl.  Whichever  way  the  game 
goes  I  must  pay.  Saints  alive  —  but  what  an  old  fool  I 
am !  "  He  laughed  constrainedly.  "  For  the  sake  of  a 
pretty  face  I'm  going  to  give  you  everything  —  but  there," 
seriously,  "  I'd  do  more  to  win  that  sweet  child  for  my  wife. 
What  d'you  say,  John  ?  " 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Lablache  meant  what  he 
said,  only  he  might  have  put  it  differently.  Had  he  said 
that  there  was  nothing  at  which  he  would  stop  to  secure 
Jacky,  it  would  have  been  more  in  keeping  with  the  facts. 
He  meant  to  marry  the  girl.  His  bilious  eyes  watered. 
There  was  a  sensual  look  in  them.  His  heavy  lips  parted 
and  closed  with  a  sucking  smack  as  though  expressing  ap- 
preciation of  a  tasty  morsel. 

John  remained  silent,  but  into  his  eyes  had  leapt  a  gleam 
which  told  of  the  lust  of  gaming  aroused.  His  look  —  his 
whole  face  spoke  for  him.  Lablache  had  primed  his  hook 
with  an  irresistible  bait.  He  knew  his  man. 

"  See,"  he  went  on,  as  the  other  remained  silent,  "  this 
is  the  way  we  can  arrange  it.  We  will  play  *  Jackpots ' 
only.  The  best  seven  out  of  thirteen.  It  will  be  a  pretty 
game,  in  which,  from  an  outsider's  point  of  view,  I  alone 
can  be  the  loser.  If  I  win  I  shall  consider  myself  amply 
repaid.  If  I  lose  —  well,"  with  an  expressive  movement  of 
the  hands,  "  I  will  take  my  chance  —  as  a  sportsman  should. 
I  love  your  niece,  John,  and  will  risk  everything  to  win  her. 
Now,  think  of  it.  It  will  be  the  sweetest,  prettiest  gamble. 
And,  too,  think  of  the  stake.  A  fortune,  John  —  a  fortune 
for  you.  And  for  me  a  bare  possibility  of  realizing  my 
hopes." 

The  old  gambler's  last  vestige  of  honor  struggled  to  make 
itself  apparent  in  a  negative  movement  of  the  head.  But 
the  movement  would  not  come.  His  thoughts  were  of  the 
game,  and  ere  yet  the  last  words  of  the  money-lender  had 
ceased  to  sound,  he  was  captured.  The  satanic  cunning  of 


258      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  proposal  was  lost  upon  his  sodden  intellect.  It  was  a 
contemptible,  pitiable  piece  of  chicanery  with  which  Lablache 
sought  to  trap  the  old  man  into  giving  his  consent  and  as- 
sistance. The  money-lender  had  no  intention  of  losing  the 
game.  He  knew  he  must  win.  He  was  merely  resorting 
to  this  means  because  he  knew  the  gambling  spirit  of  the 
rancher.  He  knew  that  "  Poker "  John's  obstinacy  was 
proof  against  any  direct  attack;  that  no  persuasion  would 
induce  the  consent  he  desired.  The  method  of  a  boxer 
pounding  the  body  of  an  opponent  whom  he  knows  to  be 
afflicted  with  some  organic  weakness  of  the  heart  is  no  more 
cowardly  than  was  Lablache's  proposal. 

The  rancher  still  remained  silent.  Lablache  moved  in 
his  chair;  one  of  his  great  fat  hands  rested  for  a  moment 
on  John's  coat  sleeve. 

"  Now,  old  friend,"  he  said,  with  a  hoarse,  whistling 
breath.  "  Shall  you  play  —  play  the  game  ?  It  will  be  a 
grand  finale  to  the  many  —  er  —  comfortable  games  we  have 
played  together.  Well  ?  Thirteen  *  Jackpots/  John  — 
yes?" 

"  And  —  and  if  I  consented  —  mind,  I  only  say  *  if.'  r 
The  rancher's  face  twitched  nervously. 

"  You  would  stand  to  win  a  fortune  —  and  also  one  for 
your  niece." 

"  Yes  —  yes.     I  might  win.     My  luck  may  turn." 

"  It  must  —  you  cannot  always  lose." 

"  Quite  right  —  I  must  win  soon.  It  is  a  great  offer  —  a 
splendid  stake." 

"  It  is." 

"Yes  —  yes,  Lablache,  I  will  play.  God,  man!  I  will 
play  you!  " 

Beads  of  sweat  stood  on  John  Allandale's  forehead  as 
he  literally  hurled  his  acceptance  at  his  companion.  He 
accepted  in  the  manner  of  one  who  knows  he  is  setting  at 
defiance  all  honesty  and  right,  urged  to  such  a  course  by 
an  all-mastering  passion,  which  he  is  incapable  of  resisting. 

Strange  was  the  nature  of  this  man.     He  knew  himself  as 


"  POKER  "  JOHN  ACCEPTS  259 

it  is  given  to  few  weak  men  to  know  themselves.  He  knew 
that  he  wished  to  do  this  thing.  He  knew,  also,  that  he 
was  doing  wrong.  Moreover  he  knew  that  he  wished  to 
stand  by  Jacky  and  be  true  to  his  great  affection  for  her. 
He  was  under  the  influence  of  potent  spirit,  and  yet  his 
thoughts  and  judgment  were  clear  upon  the  subject.  His 
mania  had  possessed  him  and  he  would  play  from  choice; 
and  all  the  while  he  could  hear  the  voice  of  conscience 
rating  him.  He  would  have  preferred  to  play  now,  but  then 
he  remembered  the  quantity  of  spirit  he  had  consumed. 
He  must  take  no  chances.  When  he  played  Lablache  he 
must  be  sober.  The  delay  of  one  night,  however,  he  knew 
would  bring  him  agonies  of  remorse,  therefore  he  would 
settle  everything  now  so  that  in  the  throes  of  conscience  he 
could  not  refuse  to  play.  He  feared  delay.  He  feared  the 
vacillation  which  the  solitary  hours  of  the  night  might  bring 
to  him.  He  leant  forward  and  thickly  urged  the  money- 
lender. 

"  When  shall  it  be  ?  .Quick,  man,  let  us  have  no  delay. 
The  time,  Lablache  —  the  time  and  place." 

Lablache  wheezed  unctuously. 

"That's  the  spirit  I  like,  John,"  he  said,  fingering  his 
watch-chain  with  his  fat  hands.  "  To  business.  The  place 
—  er  —  yes."  A  moment's  thought  whilst  the  rancher 
waited  with  impatience.  "  Ah,  I  know.  That  implement 
shed  on  your  fifty-acre  pasture.  Excellent.  There  is  a 
living  room  in  it.  You  used  to  keep  a  man  there.  It  is 
disused  now.  It  will  suit  us  admirably.  We  can  use  that 
room.  And  the  time  — " 

"  To-morrow,  Lablache.  It  must  be  to-morrow.  I  could 
not  wait  longer,"  broke  in  the  other,  in  a  voice  husky  with 
eagerness  and  liquor.  "  After  dark,  when  no  one  can  see 
us  going  out  to  the  shed.  No  one  must  know,  Lablache, 
mind  —  no  one.  Jacky  will  not  dream  of  what  we  are 
doing." 

"  Very  well.  To-morrow,  then.  At  eleven  o'clock  at 
night,  John.  And  as  you  say  in  the  meantime  —  mum." 


260      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Lablache  was  pleased  with  the  rancher's  suggestion.  It 
quite  fell  in  with  his  own  ideas.  Everything  must  be  done 
quickly  now.  He  must  get  away  from  Foss  River  without 
delay. 

"Yes  — yes.  Mum's  the  word."  "Poker"  John  in- 
dicated his  approval  with  an  upward  leer  as  Lablache  rose 
from  his  chair,  and  a  grotesque  pursing  of  his  lips  and  his 
forefinger  at  the  side  of  his  nose.  Then  he,  too,  struggled 
to  his  feet,  and,  with  unsteady  hand,  poured  out  two  stiff 
"  horns  "  of  whisky. 

He  held  one  out  to  the  money-lender  and  took  the  other 
himself. 

"  I  drink  to  the  game,"  he  said  haltingly.  "  May  — 
fortune  come  my  way." 

Lablache  nodded  comprehensively  and  slowly  raised  his 
glass. 

"  Fortune  is  yours  anyhow.  Therefore  I  trust  that  I  win 
the  game." 

The  two  men  silently  drank.  After  which  Lablache  turned 
to  go.  He  paused  at  the  French  window  and  plunged  his 
hand  into  his  coat  pocket. 

The  night  was  dark  outside,  and  again  he  became  a  prey 
to  his  moral  terror  of  the  half-breed  raider.  He  drew  out 
his  revolver  and  opened  the  chamber.  The  weapon  was 
loaded.  Then  he  turned  to  old  John  who  was  staring  at 
him. 

"  It's  risky  for  me  to  move  about  at  night,  John.  I  fear 
Retief  has  not  done  with  me  yet.  Good-night,"  and  he 
passed  out  on  to  the  veranda. 

Lablache  was  the  victim  of  a  foreboding.  It  is  a  custom 
to  laugh  at  forebodings  and  set  them  down  to  the  vagaries 
of  a  disordered  stomach.  We  laugh  too  at  superstition. 
Yet  how  often  do  we  find  that  the  portentous  significance 
of  these  things  is  actually  realized  in  fact.  Lablache 
dreaded  Retief. 

What  would  the  next  twenty-four  hours  bring  forth? 


CHAPTER  XXV 

UNCLE   AND   NIECE 

"  POKER  "  JOHN'S  remorse  came  swiftly,  but  not  swiftly  or 
strongly  enough  to  make  him  give  up  the  game.  After 
Lablache  had  taken  his  departure  the  old  rancher  sat  drink- 
ing far  into  the  night.  With  each  fresh  potation  his  con- 
science became  less  persistent  in  its  protest.  He  sought  no 
bed  that  night,  for  gradually  his  senses  left  him  and  he 
slept  where  he  sat,  until,  towards  daybreak  he  awoke,  par- 
tially sober  and  shivering  with  cold.  Then  he  arose,  and, 
wrapping  himself  in  a  heavy  overcoat,  flung  himself  upon  a 
couch,  where  he  again  sought  sobriety  in  sleep. 

He  awoke  again  soon  after  daylight.  His  head  was  racked 
with  pain.  He,  at  first,  had  only  a  dim  recollection  of  what 
had  occurred  the  night  before.  There  was  a  vague  sense 
of  something  unpleasant  having  happened,  but  he  did  not 
attempt  to  recall  it.  He  went  to  his  bedroom  and  douched 
himself  with  cold  water.  Then  he  set  out  for  the  kitchen 
in  search  of  coffee  with  which  to  slack  his  burning  thirst. 
It  was  not  until  he  had  performed  his  ablutions  that  the 
whole  truth  of  his  interview  with  Lablache  came  back  to 
him.  Immediately,  now  that  the  effect  of  the  liquor  had 
passed  off,  he  became  a  prey  to  terrible  remorse. 

Possibly  had  Jacky  been  at  hand  at  that  moment,  the 
whole  course  of  events  might  have  been  altered.  Her  pres- 
ence, a  good  breakfast,  and  occupation  might  have  given 
him  strength  to  carry  out  the  rejection  of  Lablache's  chal- 
lenge which  his  remorse  suggested.  However,  none  of  these 
things  were  at  hand,  and  John  Allandale  set  out,  from  force 
of  habit,  to  get  his  morning  "  Collins  "  down  at  "  old  man  " 

261 


262      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Smith's.  Something  to  pull  him  together  before  he  en- 
countered his  niece,  he  told  himself. 

It  was  a  fatal  delusion.  "  Old  man  "  Smith  sold  drink 
for  gain.  The  more  he  sold  the  better  he  liked  it.  John 
Allandale's  "  Collins  "  developed,  as  it  always  did  now,  into 
three  or  four  potent  drinks.  So  that  by  the  time  he  re- 
turned to  the  ranch  for  breakfast  his  remorse  was  pushed 
well  into  the  background,  and  with  feverish  craving  he  longed 
for  the  fateful  game. 

In  spite  of  his  devotion  to  the  bottle  John  Allandale 
usually  made  a  hearty  breakfast.  But  this  morning  the 
sight  of  Jacky  presiding  at  his  table  upset  him,  and  he  left 
his  food  almost  untasted.  Remorse  was  deadened  but  con- 
science was  yet  unsilenced  within  him.  Every  time  she 
spoke  to  him,  every  time  he  encountered  her  piercing  gray 
eyes  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  worse  than  Judas.  In  his  rough, 
exaggerated  way  he  told  himself  that  he  was  selling  this  girl 
as  surely  as  did  the  old  slave  owners  sell  their  slaves  in 
bygone  days.  He  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that  what 
he  was  doing  was  for  the  best,  and  certainly  that  it  was 
forced  upon  him.  He  would  not  admit  that  his  mania  for 
poker  was  the  main  factor  in  his  acceptance  of  Lablache's 
terms.  Gradually,  however,  his  thoughts  became  intolerable 
to  him,  and  when  Jacky  at  last  remarked  on  the  fact  that 
he  was  eating  nothing  and  drinking  only  his  coffee,  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  pushed  his  chair  back  and 
rose  from  the  table,  and,  muttering  an  excuse,  fled  from  the 
room. 

Her  uncle's  precipitate  flight  alarmed  Jacky.  She  had 
seen,  as  anybody  with  half  an  eye  could  see,  that  he  had 
had  a  heavy  night.  The  bleared  eyes,  the  puffed  lids,  the 
working,  nervous  face  were  simple  enough  evidence.  She 
knew,  too,  that  he  had  already  been  drinking  this  morning. 
But  these  things  were  not  new  to  her,  only  painful  facts 
which  she  was  unable  to  alter;  but  his  strange  behavior  and 
lack  of  appetite  were  things  to  set  her  thinking. 

She  was  a  very  active-minded  girl.     It  was  not  her  way 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  263 

to  sit  wondering  and  puzzling  over  anything  she  could  not 
understand.  She  had  a  knack  of  setting  herself  to  unravel 
problems  which  required  explanation  in  the  most  common- 
sense  way.  After  giving  her  uncle  time  to  leave  the  house 
—  intuition  told  her  that  he  would  do  so  —  she  rose  and 
rang  the  bell.  Then  she  moved  to  the  window  while  she 
waited  for  an  answer  to  her  summons.  She  saw  the  burly 
figure  of  her  uncle  walking  swiftly  down  towards  the  settle- 
ment and  in  the  direction  of  the  saloon. 

She  turned  with  a  sigh  as  a  servant  entered. 

"  Did  any  one  call  last  night  while  I  was  out?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  for  you,  miss." 

"Oh!" 

"No,  miss,  but  Mr.  Lablache  was  here.  He  was  with 
your  uncle  for  a  long  time  —  in  the  office." 

"  Did  he  come  in  with  Mr.  Allandale  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  miss,  the  master  didn't  go  out.  At  least  not 
that  I  know  of.  Mr.  Lablache  didn't  call  exactly.  I  think 
he  just  came  straight  to  the  office.  I  shouldn't  have  known 
he  was  there,  only  I  was  passing  the  door  and  heard  his 
voice  —  and  the  master's." 

"  Oh,  that  will  do  —  just  wait  a  moment,  though.  Say, 
is  Silas  around?  Just  find  him  and  send  him  right  along. 
Tell  him  to  come  to  the  veranda." 

The  servant  departed,  and  Jacky  sat  down  at  a  writing- 
table  and  wrote  a  note  to  "  Lord  "  Bill.  The  note  was  brief 
but  direct  in  its  tone. 

"  Can  you  see  me  this  afternoon?     Shall  be  in  after  tea." 

That  was  all  she  put,  and  added  her  strong,  bold  signa- 
ture to  it.  Silas  came  to  the  window  and  she  gave  him  the 
note  with  instructions  to  deliver  it  into  the  hands  of  the 
Hon.  Bunning-Ford. 

The  letter  dispatched  she  felt  easier  in  her  mind. 

What  had  Lablache  been  closeted  with  her  uncle  for? 
This  was  the  question  which  puzzled  —  nay,  alarmed  her. 


264      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

She  had  seen  her  uncle  early  on  the  previous  evening,  and 
he  had  seemed  happy  enough.  She  wished  now,  when  she 
had  returned  from  visiting  Mrs.  Abbot,  that  she  had  thought 
to  see  if  her  uncle  was  in.  It  had  become  such  a  custom 
for  him  lately  to  be  out  all  the  evening  that  she  had  long 
ceased  her  childhood's  custom  of  saying  "  Good-night "  to 
him  before  retiring  to  bed.  One  thing  was  certain,  she  felt 
her  uncle's  strange  behavior  this  morning  was  in  some  way 
due  to  Lablache's  visit  She  meant  to  find  out  what  that 
visit  meant. 

To  this  end  several  plans  occurred  to  her,  but  in  each 
case  were  abandoned  as  unsuitable. 

"  No,"  she  murmured  at  last,  "  I  guess  I'll  tax  him  with 
it.  He'll  tell  me.  If  Lablache  means  war,  well  —  I've  a 
notion  he'll  get  a  hustling  he  don't  consider." 

Then  she  left  the  sitting-room  that  she  might  set  about 
her  day's  work.  She  would  see  her  uncle  at  dinner-time. 

Foss  River  had  not  yet  risen  to  the  civilized  state  of  late 
dinners  and  indigestion.  Early  rising  and  hard  work 
demanded  early  meals  and  hearty  feeding.  Dinner  gener- 
ally occurred  at  noon  —  an  hour  at  which  European  society 
thinks  of  taking  its  dejeuner.  By  rising  late  society  can 
thus  avoid  what  little  fresh,  wholesome  air  there  is  to  be 
obtained  in  a  large  city.  Civilization  jibs  at  early  rising. 
Foss  River  was  still  a  wild  and  savage  country. 

At  noon  Jacky  came  in  to  dinner.  She  had  not  seen  her 
uncle  since  breakfast.  The  old  man  had  not  returned  from 
the  settlement.  Truth  to  tell  he  wished  to  avoid  his  niece 
as  much  as  possible  for  to-day.  As  dinner-time  came  round 
he  grew  nervous  and  uncomfortable,  and  was  half  inclined 
to  accept  "old  man"  Smith's  invitation  to  dine  at  the 
saloon.  Then  he  realized  that  this  would  only  alarm  Jacky 
and  set  her  thinking.  Therefore  he  plucked  up  the 
shattered  remains  of  his  moral  courage  and  returned  to  the 
ranch.  When  a  man  looses  his  last  grip  on  his  self-respect 
he  sinks  with  cruel  rapidity.  "Poker"  John  told  himself 
that  he  was  betraying  his  niece's  affection,  and  with  this 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  265 

assurance  he  told  himself  that  he  was  the  lowest-down  cur 
in  the  country.  The  natural  consequence  to  a  man  of  his 
habit  and  propensity  was  —  drink.  The  one  time  in  his 
life  when  he  should  have  refrained  from  indulgence  he 
drank;  and  with  each  drink  he  made  the  fatal  promise  to 
himself  that  it  should  be  the  last. 

When  Jacky  saw  him  swaying  as  he  came  up  towards  the 
house  she  could  have  cried  out  in  very  anguish.  It  smote 
her  to  the  heart  to  see  the  old  man  whom  she  so  loved  in 
this  condition.  Yet  when  he  lurched  on  to  the  veranda 
she  smiled  lovingly  up  into  his  face  and  gave  no  sign  that 
she  had  any  knowledge  of  his  state. 

"  Come  right  along,  uncle,"  she  said  gayly,  linking  her 
arm  within  his,  "  dinner  is  on.  You  must  be  good  and 
hungry,  you  made  such  a  poor  breakfast  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  child,  I  wasn't  very  well,"  he  mumbled  thickly. 
"Not  very  well  —  now." 

"  You  poor  dear,  come  along,"  and  she  led  him  in  through 
the  open  window. 

During  the  meal  Jacky  talked  incessantly.  She  talked  of 
everything  but  what  had  upset  her  uncle.  She  avoided 
any  reference  to  Lablache  with  great  care.  But,  in  spite  of 
her  cheerfulness,  she  could  not  rouse  the  degenerate  old 
man.  Rather  it  seemed  that,  as  the  meal  progressed,  he 
became  gloomier.  The  truth  was  the  girl's  apparent  light- 
heartedness  added  to  his  self-revilings  and  made  him  feel 
more  criminal  than  ever.  He  ate  his  food  mechanically, 
and  he  drank  glass  after  glass  of  ale. 

Jacky  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  meal  was  over. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  much  longer  have  kept  up  her 
light-hearted  talk.  Her  uncle  was  about  to  move  from  the 
table.  The  girl  stayed  him  with  a  gesture.  He  had  eaten 
a  good  dinner  and  she  was  satisfied.  Now  she  would 
question  him. 

It  is  strange  how  a  woman,  in  whatever  relationship  she 
may  stand,  loves  to  see  a  man  eat  well.  Possibly  she  un- 
derstands the  effect  of  a  good  dinner  upon  the  man  in  whom 


266      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

she  centers  her  affection;  possibly  it  is  the  natural  maternal 
instinct  for  his  well-being. 

"  Uncle,  what  did  Lablache  come  to  see  you  for  last 
night?" 

The  question  was  abrupt.  It  had  the  effect  of  bringing 
the  rancher  back  to  his  seat  with  a  drunken  lurch. 

"Eh?"  he  queried,  blinking  nervously. 

"What  did  he  come  for?  "  Jacky  persisted. 

The  girl  could  be  relentless  even  with  her  uncle. 

"  Lablache  —  oh  —  er  —  talk  bus  —  bus'ness,  child  — 
bus'ness,"  and  he  attempted  to  get  up  from  his  chair  again. 

But  Jacky  would  not  let  him  go. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  uncle  dear,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I 
sha'n't  keep  you  long."  The  old  man  looked  anywhere  but 
at  his  companion.  A  cold  sweat  was  on  his  forehead,  and 
his  cheek  twitched  painfully  under  the  steady  gaze  of  the 
girl's  somber  eyes.  "  I  don't  often  get  a  chance  of  talking 
to  you  now,"  she  went  on,  with  a  slight  touch  of  bitterness. 
"  I  just  want  to  talk  about  that  skunk,  Lablache.  I  guess 
he  didn't  pass  the  evening  talking  of  Retief  —  and  what  he 
intends  to  do  towards  his  capture?  Say,  uncle,  what  was 
it  about?" 

The  old  man  grasped  at  the  suggestion. 

"Yes  — yes,  child.     It  was  Retief." 

He  kept  his  eyes  averted.    The  girl  was  not  deceived. 

"All  the  time?" 

"  Poker  "  John  remained  silent.  He  would  have  lied  but 
could  not. 

"Uncle!" 

Her  tone  was  a  moral  pressure.  The  old  man  turned  for 
relief  to  his  avuncular  authority. 

"  I  must  go.  You've  no  right  —  question  me,"  he  stut- 
tered. "I  refu—-" 

"No,  uncle,  you  won't  refuse  me."  The  girl  had  risen 
and  had  moved  round  to  where  the  old  man  sat.  She 
fondled  him  lovingly  and  his  attempt  at  angry  protest  died 
within  him.  "  Come,  dear,  tell  me  all  about  it.  You  are 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  267 

worried  and  I  can  help  you.  What  did  he  threaten  you 
with?  I  suppose  he  wants  money,"  contemptuously. 
"How  much?" 

The  old  drunkard  was  powerless  to  resist  her  loving 
appeal. 

He  was  cornered.  Another  might  have  lied  and  so 
escaped,  but  John  Allandale's  weakness  was  such  that  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  resort  to  subterfuge.  Moreover, 
there  was  a  faint  spark  of  honor  flickering  deep  down  in 
his  kindly  heart.  The  girl's  affectionate  display  was  surely 
fanning  that  spark  into  a  flame.  Would  the  flame  grow  or 
would  it  sparkle  up  for  one  brief  moment  and  then  go  out 
from  pure  lack  of  fuel?  Suddenly  something  of  the  truth 
of  the  cause  of  her  uncle's  distress  flashed  across  Jacky's 
mind.  She  knew  Lablache's  wishes  in  regard  to  herself. 
Perhaps  she  was  the  subject  of  that  interview. 

"  Uncle,  it  is  I  who  am  causing  you  this  trouble.  What 
is  it  that  Lablache  wants  of  me?  "  She  asked  the  question 
with  her  cheek  pressed  to  the  old  man's  face.  His  whisky- 
laden  breath  reeked  in  her  nostrils. 

Her  question  took  him  unawares,  and  he  started  up 
pushing  her  from  him. 

"Who  —  who  told  you,  girl?"  His  bleared  eyes  were 
now  turned  upon  her,  and  they  gazed  fearfully  into  hers. 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  exclaimed,  smiling  back  into  the 
troubled  face.  "No  one  told  me,  uncle.  I  guess  that 
beast  wants  to  marry  me.  Say,  uncle,  you  can  tell  me  every- 
thing right  here.  I'll  help  you.  He's  smart,  but  he  can't 
mate  with  me." 

"  But  —  but  — "     He  struggled  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"  No  *  buts,'  dear.  I've  refused  Lablache  once.  I  guess 
I  can  size  up  the  racket  he  thinks  to  play.  Money  —  money ! 
He'd  like  to  buy  me,  I  take  it.  Say,  uncle,  can't  we  frolic 
him  some?  Now  —  what  did  he  say?" 

"I  —  can't  tell  you,  child,"  the  old  man  protested 
desperately.  Then  he  weakened  further  before  those  deep, 
steadfast  eyes.  "Don't  —  press  me.  Don' — press  me." 


268      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

His  voice  contained  maudlin  tears.  "  I'm  a  vill'n,  girL 
I'm  worse.  Don'  —  look  a'  me  —  like  that  Ja'y  —  Ja'y 
—  I've  — sol'  — you!" 

The  miserable  old  man  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair 
and  his  head  bowed  until  his  chin  sank  heavily  upon  his 
chest.  Two  great  tears  welled  into  his  bloodshot  eyes  and 
trickled  slowly  down  his  seared  old  cheeks.  It  was  a 
pitiable  sight.  Jacky  looked  on  silently  for  a  moment.  Her 
eyes  took  in  every  detail  of  that  picture  of  despair.  She 
had  heard  the  old  man's  words  but  took  no  heed  of  them. 
She  was  thinking  very  hard.  Suddenly  she  seemed  to  arrive 
at  a  decision.  Her  laugh  rang  out,  and  she  came  and  knelt 
at  her  uncle's  side. 

"  So  you've  sold  me,  you  old  dear,  and  not  a  bad  thing 
too.  What's  the  price?" 

Her  uncle  raised  his  bowed  head.  Her  smiling  face 
dried  his  tears  and  put  fresh  heart  into  him.  He  had 
expected  bitter  invective,  but  instead  the  girl  smiled. 

Jacky's  task  now  became  a  simple  one.  A  mere  matter 
of  pumping.  Sharp  questions  and  rambling  replies.  Bit 
by  bit  she  learned  the  story  of  Lablache's  proposal  and  the 
manner  in  which  an  acceptance  had  been  forced  upon  her 
uncle.  She  did  not  relinquish  her  task  until  the  minutest 
detail  had  been  gleaned.  At  last  she  was  satisfied  with  her 
cross-examination. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  passed  her  hand  with  a  caressing 
movement  over  her  uncle's  head,  gazing  the  while  out  of  the 
window.  Her  mind  was  made  up.  Her  uncle  needed  her 
help  now.  That  help  should  be  his.  She  condoned  his 
faults;  she  saw  nothing  but  that  which  was  lovable  in  his 
weakness.  Hers  was  now  the  strength  to  protect  him,  who, 
in  the  days  of  his  best  manhood  had  sheltered  her  from  the 
cruel  struggles  of  a  life  in  the  half-breed  camp,  for  such, 
at  the  death  of  her  impecunious  father,  must  otherwise  have 
been  her  lot. 

Now  she  looked  down  into  that  worn,  old  face,  and  her 
brisk,  business-like  tones  roused  him  into  new  life. 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  269 

"  Uncle,  you  must  meet  Lablache  and  play  —  the  game. 
For  the  rest,  leave  it  to  me.  All  I  ask  is  —  no  more  whisky 
to-day.  Stay  right  here  and  have  a  sleep.  Guess  you  might 
go  an'  lie  down,  I'll  call  you  for  supper.  Then  you'll  be 
fit  One  thing  you  must  remember;  watch  that  ugly- faced 
cur  when  you  play.  See  he  don't  cheat  any.  I'll  tell  you 
more  before  you  start  out.  Come  right  along  now  and  have 
that  sleep." 

The  old  man  got  up  and  the  girl  led  him  from  the  room. 
She  saw  him  to  his  bedroom  and  then  left  him.  She  de- 
cided that,  for  herself,  she  would  not  leave  the  house  until 
she  had  seen  Bill.  She  must  get  her  uncle  sober  before  he 
went  to  meet  Lablache. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN    WHICH    MATTERS    REACH    A    CLIMAX 

Foss  RIVER  SETTLEMENT  was,  at  the  time,  a  very  small 
place,  and  of  practically  no  importance.  It  was  brought  into 
existence  by  the  neighborhood  of  one  or  two  large  ranches; 
these  ranches  employed  considerable  labor.  Foss  River 
might  be  visited  by  an  earthquake,  and,  provided  the  earth- 
quake was  not  felt  elsewhere,  the  world  would  not  be  likely 
to  hear  of  it  for  weeks.  The  newspapers  of  the  Western 
cities  were  in  their  infancy,  and  contented  themselves  with 
the  news  of  their  own  towns  and  feverish  criticisms  of  poli- 
tics which  were  beyond  the  understanding  of  their  editors. 
Progress  in  the  West  was  very  slow  —  almost  at  a  standstill. 

After  the  death  of  Horrocks  the  police  had  withdrawn  to 
report  and  to  receive  augmentation.  No  one  felt  alarm  at 
their  absence.  The  inhabitants  of  Foss  River  were  a  self- 
reliant  people  —  accustomed  to  look  to  themselves  for  the 
remedy  of  a  grievance.  Besides,  Horrocks,  they  said,  had 
shown  himself  to  be  a  duffer  —  merely  a  tracker,  a  prairie- 
man  and  not  the  man  to  bring  Retief  to  justice.  Already 
the  younger  members  of  the  settlement  and  district  were 
forming  themselves  into  a  vigilance  committee.  The  elders 
—  those  to  whom  the  younger  looked  for  a  lead  in  such 
matters  —  had  chosen  to  go  to  the  police;  now  the  younger 
of  the  settlement  decided  to  act  for  themselves. 

This  was  the  condition  and  feeling  in  Foss  River  at  the 
time  of  the  death  of  Horrocks;  this  was  the  state  of  affairs 
when  the  insouciant  Bill  leisurely  strolled  into  the  sitting- 
room  at  the  Foss  River  Ranch,  about  the  time  that  Joaquina 
Allandale  had  finished  her  tea.  With  the  familiarity  of 
the  West,  Bill  entered  by  the  French  window.  His  lazy 

270 


IN  WHICH  MATTERS  REACH  A  CLIMAX      271 

smile  was  undisturbed.  He  might  have  been  paying  an  or- 
dinary call  instead  of  answering  a  summons  which  he  knew 
must  be  a  matter  of  emergency,  for  it  was  understood  be- 
.tween  these  two  that  private  meetings  were  tabooed,  except 
when  necessity  demanded  them. 

Jacky's  greeting  was  not  reassuring,  but  her  lover's  ex- 
pression remained  unchanged,  except  that  his  weary  eyelids 
further  unclosed. 

"  Guess  we're  side-tracked,  Bill,"  she  said  meaningly. 
"  The  line's  blocked.  Signals  dead  against  us." 

Bill  looked  into  her  eyes;  then  he  turned  and  closed  the 
window,  latching  it  securely.  The  door  was  closed.  His 
keen  eyes  noted  this. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

The  girl  shrugged. 

"  The  next  twelve  hours  must  finish  our  game." 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  went  on,  "  it  is  Lablache's  doing.  We 
must  settle  our  reckoning  with  him  to-night." 

Bill  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"  Will  you  explain  ?  —  I  don't  understand.  May  I 
smoke?" 

Jacky  smiled.  The  request  was  so  unnecessary.  She 
always  liked  Bill's  nonchalance.  It  conveyed  such  a  sug- 
gestion of  latent  power. 

"  Yes,  smoke,  Bill;  smoke  and  get  your  thinking  box  in 
order.  My  yarn  won't  take  a  deal  of  time  to  tell.  But  it'll 
take  a  deal  of  thought  to  upset  Lablache's  last  move, 
without  —  shootin'." 

"  Um  —  shooting's  an  evil,  but  sometimes  —  necessary. 
What's  his  racket?" 

The  girl  told  her  story  quickly.  She  forgot  nothing.  She 
never  allowed  herself  to  fall  into  the  womanly  mistake  of 
omitting  details,  however  sm^ll. 

Bill  fully  appreciated  her  cleverness  in  this  direction. 
He  could  trust  what  she  said  implicitly.  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  story  he  sat  up  and  rolled  another  cigarette. 


272      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  And  your  uncle  is  upstairs  in  bed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  when  he  wakes  I  guess  he'll  need  a  bracer.  He'll 
be  sober.  He  must  play.  Lablache  means  to  win." 

"  Yes,  he  means  to  win.     He  has  had  a  bad  scare." 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do?  " 

The  girl  eyed  her  lover  keenly.  She  saw  by  his  manner 
that  he  was  thinking  rapidly. 

"The  game  must  be  interrupted  —  with  another  scare." 

"What?" 

Bill  shrugged  and  laughed. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Burn  him  out  —  his  store.     And  then  — " 

"And  then?"  eagerly. 

"  Retief  will  be  present  at  the  game.  Tell  him  what  has 
happened  and  —  if  he  doesn't  leave  Foss  River  —  shoot  him. 
Mortgages  and  all  records  of  debts,  etc.,  are  in  his  store." 

"  Good." 

After  expressing  her  approval  the  girl  sat  gazing  into  her 
lover's  face.  They  talked  a  little  longer,  then  Bill  rose  to 

g°- 

"  Eleven  o'clock  to-night  you  say  is  the  appointed  hour?  " 

"  Yes.  I  shall  meet  you  at  the  gate  of  the  fifty-acre 
pasture." 

"  Better  not." 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  be  there,"  with  a  decisive  nod. 
"  One  cannot  be  sure.  You  may  need  me." 

"Very  well.  Good-by,  little  woman."  "Lord"  Bill 
bent  and  kissed  her.  Then  something  very  like  a  sigh  es- 
caped him.  "  I  think  with  you  this  game  is  nearly  up. 
To-night  will  settle  things  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Yes.  Trouble  is  not  far  off.  Say,  Bill,  when  it  comes, 
I  want  to  be  with  you." 

Bill  looked  tenderly  down  into  the  upturned  face. 

"  Is  that  why  you  insist  on  coming  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Another  embrace  and  Bill  left  the  house. 

He  sauntered  leisurely  down  the  avenue  of  pines.     He 


IN  WHICH  MATTERS  REACH  A  CLIMAX     273 

kept  straight  on  towards  the  muskeg.  Then  he  turned  away 
from  the  settlement,  and  was  soon  lost  behind  the  rising 
ground  which  shored  the  great  mire.  Once  out  of  sight  of 
the  house  he  quickened  his  pace,  gradually  swinging  away 
from  the  keg,  and  heading  towards  the  half-breed  camp. 

Foss  River  might  have  been  deserted  for  all  signs  of  life 
he  encountered.  The  prairie  was  calmly  silent.  Not  even 
the  call  of  the  birds  broke  the  stillness  around.  The  heat 
of  the  afternoon  had  lulled  all  nature  to  repose. 

He  strode  on  swiftly  until  he  came  to  a  small  bluff.  Here 
he  halted  and  threw  himself  full  length  upon  the  ground  in 
a  welcome  shade.  He  was  within  sight  of  the  half-breed 
camp.  He  shifted  his  position  until  his  head  was  in  the 
sun.  In  this  way  he  could  see  the  scattered  dwellings  of 
the  prairie  outcasts.  Then  he  drew  a  small  piece  of  look- 
ing-glass from  his  pocket  and  held  it  out  in  the  sun.  Turn- 
ing and  twisting  it  in  the  direction  of  the  camp,  as  might  a 
child  who  wishes  to  dazzle  a  play-fellow's  eyes.  For  sev- 
eral minutes  he  thus  manipulated  his  impromptu  heliograph. 
Then,  as  he  suddenly  beheld  an  answering  flash  in  the  dis- 
tance, he  desisted,  and  returned  the  glass  to  his  pocket.  Now 
he  drew  back  in  the  shade  and  composed  himself  to  smoke. 

The  half-closed  eyes  of  the  recumbent  man  gazed  steadily 
out  towards  the  camp.  He  had  nearly  finished  his  third 
cigarette  when  his  quick  ears  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps. 
Instantly  he  sat  up.  The  steps  grew  louder  and  then  round 
the  sheltering  bush  came  the  thick-set  form  of  Gautier.  He 
was  accompanied  by  an  evil-looking  dog  which  growled 
sulkily  as  it  espied  the  white  man. 

"  Ugh !  Hot  walking"  said  the  newcomer,  by  way  of 
greeting. 

"  Not  so  hot  as  it'll  be  to-night,"  said  the  white  man, 
quietly.  "  Sit  down." 

"  More  bonfires,  boss?  "  said  the  half-breed,  with  a  mean- 
ing grin,  seating  himself  as  he  spoke. 

"  More  bonfires.  See  you,  I  want  six  of  the  boys  at 
Lablache's  store  to-night  at  eleven  o'clock.  We  are  going 


274      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

to  burn  his  place.  It  will  be  quite  easy.  Lablache  will  be 
away,  and  only  his  clerks  on  the  premises.  The  cellar 
underneath  the  building  is  lit  by  barred  windows,  two  under 
the  front,  and  two  under  the  office  at  the  back.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  break  the  glass  of  the  window  at  the  back 
and  pour  in  a  couple  of  gallons  of  coal  oil.  Then  push 
in  some  straw,  and  then  light  a  piece  of  oil-soaked  rope  and 
drop  it  in.  The  cellar  is  full  of  cases  of  goods  and  barrels 
of  oil.  The  fire  will  be  unextinguishable.  Directly  it  is 
well  lit  see  that  the  clerks  are  warned.  We  want  no  lives 
lost.  You  understand?  The  stables  are  adjacent  and  will 
catch  fire  too.  I  sha'n't  be  there  until  later.  There  will  be 
no  risk  and  lots  of  loot.  Savee  ?  " 

The  cunning  face  of  the  half-breed  was  lit  by  an  unholy 
grin.  He  rubbed  his  hands  with  the  unctuous  anticipation 
of  a  shop-walker.  Truly,  he  thought,  this  white  man  was  a 
man  after  his  own  heart.  He  wagged  his  head  in  approval. 

"  Easy  —  easy?  It  is  childlike,"  he  said  in  ecstasy.  "  I 
have  long  thought  of  it,  sure.  An'  thar  is  a  big  store  of 
whisky  thar,  eh,  boss  ?  Good  —  good !  And  what  time  will 
you  come  ?  " 

"  When  the  fire  is  lit.  I  go  to  deal  with  Lablache.  Look 
you  here,  Gautier,  you  owe  that  man  a  grudge.  You  would 
kill  him  but  you  don't  dare.  I  may  pay  off  that  grudge  for 
you.  Pay  it  by  a  means  that  is  better  than  killing." 

"  Torture,"  grinned  the  half-breed. 

Bill  nodded. 

"  Now  see  and  be  off.  And  don't  make  any  mistake,  or 
we  may  all  swing  for  it.  Tell  Baptiste  he  must  go  over  the 
keg  at  once  and  bring  Golden  Eagle  to  my  shack  at  about 
half-past  ten.  Tell  him  to  be  punctual.  Now  scoot  No 
mistakes,  or — "  and  Bill  made  a  significant  gesture. 

The  man  understood  and  hurried  away.  "  Lord  "  Bill 
was  satisfied  that  his  orders  would  be  carried  out  to  the 
letter.  The  service  he  demanded  of  this  man  was  congenial 
service,  in  so  far  that  it  promised  loot  in  plenty  and  easily 
acquired.  Moreover,  the  criminal  side  of  the  half-breed's 


IN  WHICH  MATTERS  REACH  A  CLIMAX      275 

nature  was  tickled.  A  liberal  reward  for  honesty  would  be 
less  likely  to  secure  good  service  from  such  as  Gautier  than 
a  chance  of  gain  for  shady  work.  It  was  the  half-breed 
nature. 

After  the  departure  of  the  half-breed,  Bill  remained  where 
he  was  for  some  time.  He  sat  with  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knees,  gazing  thoughtfully  out  towards  the  camp. 
He  was  reviewing  his  forces  and  mentally  struggling  to 
penetrate  the  pall  which  obscured  the  future.  He  felt  him- 
self to  be  playing  a  winning  game;  at  least,  that  his  venge- 
ance and  chastisement  of  Lablache  had  been  made 
ridiculously  easy  for  him.  But  now  he  had  come  to  that 
point  when  he  wondered  what  must  be  the  outcome  of  it 
all  as  regarded  himself  and  the  girl  he  loved.  Would  his 
persecution  drive  Lablache  from  Foss  River  to  the  security 
of  Calford,  where  he  would  be  able  to  follow  him  and  still 
further  prosecute  his  inexorable  vengeance?  Or  would  he 
still  choose  to  remain?  He  knew  Lablache  to  be  a  strong 
man,  but  he  also  knew,  by  the  money-lender's  sudden  de- 
termination to  force  Jacky  into  marriage  with  him,  that  he 
had  received  a  scare.  He  could  not  decide  on  the  point. 
But  he  inclined  to  the  belief  that  Lablache  must  go  after 
to-night.  He  would  not  spare  him.  He  had  yet  a  trump 
card  to  play.  He  would  be  present  at  the  game  of  cards, 
and  —  well,  time  would  show. 

He  threw  away  his  mangled  cigarette  end  and  rose  from 
the  ground.  One  glance  of  his  keen  eyes  told  him  that  no 
one  was  in  sight.  He  strolled  out  upon  the  prairie  and 
made  his  way  back  to  the  settlement.  He  need  not  have 
troubled  himself  about  the  future.  The  future  would  work 
itself  out,  and  no  effort  of  his  would  be  capable  of  directing 
its  course.  A  higher  power  than  man's  was  governing  the 
actions  of  the  participants  in  the  Foss  River  drama. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  "  Lord  "  Bill  moved  about  the 
settlement  in  his  customary  idle  fashion.  He  visited  the 
saloon;  he  showed  himself  on  the  market-place.  He  dis- 
cussed the  doings  of  Retief  with  the  butcher,  the  smith, 


276      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Dr.  Abbot.  And,  as  the  evening  closed  in  and  the  sun's 
power  lessened,  he  identified  himself  with  others  as  idle  as 
himself,  and  basked  in  the  warmth  of  its  feeble,  dying  rays. 

When  darkness  closed  in  he  went  to  his  shack  and  pre- 
pared his  evening  meal  with  a  simple  directness  which  no 
thoughts  of  coming  events  could  upset.  Bill  was  always 
philosophical.  He  ate  to  live,  and  consequently  was  not 
particular  about  his  food.  He  passed  the  evening  between 
thought  and  tobacco,  and  only  an  occasional  flashing  of  his 
lazy  eyes  gave  any  sign  of  the  trend  of  his  mental  effort. 

At  a  few  minutes  past  ten  he  went  into  his  bedroom  and 
carefully  locked  the  door.  Then  he  drew  from  beneath  his 
bed  a  small  chest;  it  was  an  ammunition  chest  of  very 
powerful  make.  The  small  sliding  lid  was  securely  pad- 
locked. This  he  opened  and  drew  from  within  several 
articles  of  apparel  and  a  small  cardboard  box. 

Next  he  divested  himself  of  his  own  tweed  clothes  and 
donned  the  things  he  had  taken  from  the  box.  These  con- 
sisted of  a  pair  of  moleskin  trousers,  a  pair  of  chaps,  a 
buckskin  shirt  and  a  battered  Stetson  hat.  From  the  card- 
board box  he  took  out  a  tin  of  greasy-looking  stuff  and  a  long 
black  wig  made  of  horse  hair.  Stepping  to  a  glass  he  smeared 
his  face  with  the  grease,  covering  his  own  white  flesh  care- 
fully right  down  to  the  chest  and  shoulders,  also  his  hands. 
It  was  a  brownish  ocher  and  turned  his  skin  to  the  copperish 
hue  of  the  Indian.  The  wig  was  carefully  adjusted  and 
secured  by  sprigs  to  his  own  fair  hair.  This,  with  the  hat 
well  jammed  down  upon  his  head,  completed  the  transforma- 
tion, and  out  from  the  looking-glass  peered  the  strong, 
eagle  face  of  the  redoubtable  half-breed,  Retief. 

He  then  filled  the  chest  with  his  own  clothes  and  re- 
locked  it.  Suddenly  his  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
some  one  approaching.  He  looked  at  his  watch;  it  wanted 
two  minutes  to  half-past  ten.  He  waited. 

Presently  he  heard  the  rattle  of  a  stick  down  the  feather- 
edged  boarding  of  the  outer  walls  of  the  hut.  He  picked 
up  his  revolver  belt  and  secured  it  about  his  waist,  and 


IN  WHICH  MATTERS  REACH  A  CLIMAX      277 

then,  putting  out  the  light,  unlocked  the  back  door  which 
opened  out  of  his  bedroom. 

A  horse  was  standing  outside,  and  a  man  held  the  bridle 
reins  looped  upon  his  arm. 

"That  you,  Baptiste?" 

"  Yup." 

"  Good,  you  are  punctual." 

"  It's  as  well." 

"  Yes." 

"I  go  to  join  the  boys,"  the  half-breed  said  slowly. 
"And  you?" 

"I  —  oh,  I  go  to  settle  a  last  account  with  Lablache," 
replied  Bill,  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Where?" 

Bill  looked  sharply  at  the  man.  He  understood  the 
native  distrust  of  the  Breed.  Then  he  nodded  vaguely  in 
the  direction  of  the  Foss  River  Ranch. 

"  Yonder.  In  old  John's  fifty-acre  pasture.  Lablache 
and  John  meet  at  the  tool-shed  there  to-night.  Why?" 

"  And  you  go  not  to  the  fire?  "  Baptiste's  voice  had  a 
surprised  ring  in  it. 

"  Not  until  later.  I  must  be  at  the  meeting  soon  after 
eleven." 

The  half-breed  was  silent  for  a  minute.  He  seemed  to 
be  calculating.  At  length  he  spoke.  His  words  conveyed 
resolve. 

"  It  is  good.  Guess  you  may  need  assistance.  I'll  be 
there  —  and  some  of  the  boys.  We  ain't  goin'  ter  interfere 
—  if  things  goes  smooth." 

Bill  shrugged. 

"  You  need  not  come." 

"No?     Nuthin'  more?" 

"  Nothing.  Keep  the  boys  steady.  Don't  burn  the 
clerks  in  the  store." 

"  No." 

"  S'long." 

"  S'long." 


278      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  Lord  "  Bill  vaulted  into  the  saddle,  and  Golden  Eagle 
moved  restively  away. 

It  was  as  well  that  Foss  River  was  a  sleepy  place. 
"  Lord  "  Bill's  precautions  were  not  elaborate.  But  then  he 
knew  the  ways  of  the  settlement. 

Dr.  Abbot  chanced  to  be  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the 
saloon.  Bill's  shack  was  little  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
away.  The  doctor  was  about  to  step  across  to  see  if  he 
were  in,  for  the  purpose  of  luring  his  friend  into  a  game. 
Poker  was  not  so  plentiful  with  the  doctor  now  since  Bill 
had  dropped  out  of  Lablache's  set. 

He  saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  horseman  moving  away  from 
the  back  of  "  Lord  "  Bill's  hut.  His  curiosity  was  aroused. 
He  hastened  across  to  the  shack.  He  found  it  locked  up, 
and  in  darkness.  He  turned  away  wondering.  And  as  he 
turned  away  he  found  himself  almost  face  to  face  with  Bap- 
tiste.  The  doctor  knew  the  man. 

"Evening,  Baptiste." 

"  Evening,"  the  man  growled. 

The  doctor  was  about  to  speak  again  but  the  man  hurried 
away. 

"  Damned  funny,"  the  medical .  man  muttered.  Then  he 
moved  off  towards  his  own  home.  Somehow  he  had  for- 
gotten his  wish  for  poker. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   LAST   GAMBLE 

THE  fifty-acre  pasture  was  situated  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  to  the  left  of  John  Allandale's  house.  Then,  too, 
the  whole  length  of  it  must  be  crossed  before  the  implement 
shed  be  reached.  This  would  add  another  half  a  mile  to 
the  distance,  for  the  field  was  long  and  narrow,  skirting  as 
it  did  the  hay  slough  which  provided  the  ranch  with  hay. 
The  pasture  was  on  the  sloping  side  of  the  slough,  and  on 
the  top  of  the  ridge  stretched  a  natural  fence  of  pines  nearly 
two  miles  in  extent. 

The  shed  was  erected  for  the  accommodation  of  mowers, 
horse-rakes,  and  the  necessary  appurtenances  for  haying. 
At  one  end,  as  Lablache  had  said,  was  a  living-room.  It 
was  called  so  by  courtesy.  It  was  little  better  than  the 
rest  of  the  building,  except  that  there  was  a  crazy  door  to 
it  —  also  a  window;  a  rusty  iron  stove,  small,  and  —  when  a 
fire  burned  in  it  —  fierce,  was  crowded  into  a  corner.  Now, 
however,  the  stove  was  dismantled,  and  lengths  of  stove 
pipe  were  littered  about  the  floor  around  it.  A  rough  bed, 
supported  on  trestles,  and  innocent  of  bedding,  filled  one 
end  of  this  abode;  a  table  made  of  packing  cases,  and  two 
chairs  of  the  Windsor  type,  one  fairly  sound  and  the  other 
minus  a  back,  completed  the  total  of  rude  furniture  neces- 
sary for  a  "  hired  man's  "  requirements. 

A  living-room,  the  money-lender  had  said,  therefore  we 
must  accept  his  statement. 

A  reddish,  yellow  light  from  a  dingy  oil  lamp  glowed 
sullenly,  and  added  to  the  cheerlessness  of  the  apartment. 
At  intervals  black  smoke  belched  from  the  chimney  top  of 
the  lamp  in  response  to  the  draughts  which  blew  through 

279 


280     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

the  sieve-like  boarding  of  the  shed.  One  must  feel  sorry 
for  the  hired  man  whose  lot  is  cast  in  such  cheerless 
quarters. 

It  was  past  eleven.  Lablache  and  John  Allandale  were 
seated  at  the  table.  The  lurid  light  did  not  improve  the  ex- 
pression of  their  faces. 

"  Poker  "  John  was  eager  —  keenly  eager  now  that  Jacky 
had  urged  him  to  the  game.  Moreover,  he  was  sober  — 
sober  as  the  proverbial  "  judge."  Also  he  was  suspicious 
of  his  opponent  Jacky  had  warned  him.  He  looked  very 
old  as  he  sat  at  that  table.  His  senility  appeared  in  every 
line  of  his  face;  in  every  movement  of  his  shaking  hands; 
in  every  glance  of  his  bleared  eyes. 

Lablache,  also,  was  changed  slightly,  but  it  was  not  in 
the  direction  of  age;  he  showed  signs  of  elation,  triumph. 
He  felt  that  he  was  about  to  accomplish  the  object  which 
had  long  been  his,  and,  at  the  same  time,  outwit  the  half- 
breed  who  had  so  lately  come  into  his  life,  with  such  disas- 
trous results  to  his,  the  money-lender's,  peaceful  enjoyment 
of  his  ill-gotten  wealth. 

Lablache  turned  his  lashless  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
window.  It  was  a  square  aperture  of  about  two  feet  in  extent. 

"  We  are  not  likely  to  be  interrupted,"  he  said  wheezily, 
"  but  it  never  does  to  chance  anything.  Shall  we  cover  the 
window?  A  light  in  this  room  is  unusual — " 

"  Yes,  let  us  cover  it."  "  Poker  "  John  chafed  at  the  de- 
lay. "  No  one  is  likely  to  come  this  way,  though." 

Lablache  looked  about  for  something  which  would  answer 
his  purpose.  There  was  nothing  handy.  He  drew  out  his 
great  bandanna  and  tried  it.  It  exactly  covered  the  window. 
So  he  secured  it.  It  would  serve  to  darken  the  light  to  any 
one  who  might  chance  to  be  within  sight  of  the  shed.  He 
returned  to  his  seat.  He  bulged  over  it  as  he  sat  down,  and 
its  legs  creaked  ominously. 

"  I  have  brought  three  packs  of  cards,"  he  said,  laying 
them  upon  the  table. 

"  So  have  I." 


THE  LAST  GAMBLE  281 

"  Poker "  John  looked  directly  into  the  other's  bilious 
eyes. 

"Ah  —  then  we  have  six  packs." 

"  Yes  —  six." 

"Whose  shall  we—"  Lablache  began. 

"  We'll  cut  for  it.     Ace  low.     Low  wins." 

The  money-lender  smiled  at  the  rancher's  eagerness. 
The  two  men  cut  in  silence.  Lablache  cut  a  "three"; 
"  Poker  "  John,  a  "  queen." 

"We  will  use  your  cards,  John."  The  money-lender's 
face  expressed  an  unctuous  benignity. 

The  rancher  was  surprised,  and  his  tell-tale  cheek  twitched 
uncomfortably. 

"  For  deal,"  said  Lablache,  stripping  one  of  John's  packs 
and  passing  it  to  his  companion.  The  rancher  shuffled  and 
cut  —  Lablache  cut.  The  deal  went  to  the  latter. 

"  We  want  something  to  score  on,"  the  money-lender  said. 
"My  memorandum  pad — " 

"We'll  have  nothing  on  the  table,  please."  John  had 
been  warned. 

Lablache  shrugged  and  smiled.  He  seemed  to  imply 
that  the  precaution  was  unnecessary.  "  Poker  "  John  was 
in  desperate  earnest. 

"A  piece  of  chalk  —  on  the  wall."  The  rancher  pro- 
duced the  chalk  and  set  it  on  the  floor  close  by  the  wall 
and  returned  to  his  seat. 

Lablache  shuffled  clumsily.  His  fingers  seemed  too  gross 
to  handle  cards.  And  yet  he  could  shuffle  well,  and  his 
fingers  were,  in  reality,  most  sensitive.  John  Allandale 
looked  on  eagerly.  The  money-lender,  contrary  to  his 
custom,  dealt  swiftly  —  so  swiftly  that  the  bleared  eyes  of 
his  opponent  could  not  follow  his  movements. 

Both  men  picked  up  their  cards.  The  old  instincts  of 
poker  were  not  so  pronounced  in  the  rancher  as  they  used 
to  be.  Doubtless  the  game  he  was  now  playing  did  not 
need  such  mask-like  impassivity  of  expression  as  an  ordinary 
game  would.  After  all,  the  pot  opened,  it  merely  became 


282      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

a  question  of  who  held  the  best  hand.  There  would  be  no 
betting.  John's  eyes  lighted  up  as  he  glanced  at  the  index 
numerals.  He  held  two  "  Jacks." 

"  Can  you?  "  Lablache's  husky  voice  rasped  in  the  still- 
ness. 

"  Yes." 

The  dealer  eyed  his  opponent  for  a  second.  His  face 
was  that  of  a  graven  image. 

"How  many?" 

"  Three." 

The  money-lender  passed  three  cards  across  the  table. 
Then  he  discarded  two  cards  from  his  own  hand  and  drew 
two  more. 

"  What  have  you  got?  "  he  asked,  with  a  grim  pursing  of 
his  sagging  lips. 

"  Two  pairs.     Jacks  up." 

Lablache  laid  his  own  cards  on  the  table,  spreading  them 
out  face  upwards  for  the  rancher  to  see.  He  held  three 
"  twos." 

"  One  to  you,"  said  John  Allandale;  and  he  went  and 
chalked  the  score  upon  the  wall. 

There  was  something  very  businesslike  about  these  two 
men  when  they  played  cards.  And  possibly  it  was  only 
natural.  The  quiet  way  in  which  they  played  implied  the 
deadly  earnestness  of  their  game.  Their  surroundings,  too, 
were  impressive  when  associated  with  the  secrecy  of  their 
doings. 

Each  man  meant  to  win,  and  in  both  were  all  the  baser 
passions  fully  aroused.  Neither  would  spare  the  other, 
each  would  do  his  utmost.  Lablache  was  sure.  John  was 
consumed  with  a  deadly  nervousness.  But  John  Allandale 
at  cards  was  the  soul  of  honor.  Lablache  was  confident 
in  his  superior  manipulation  —  not  play  —  of  cards.  He 
knew  that,  bar  accidents,  he  must  win.  The  mystery  of 
being  able  to  deal  himself  "  three  of  a  kind  "  and  even 
better  was  no  mystery  to  him.  He  preferred  his  usual 
method  —  the  method  of  "reflection,"  as  he  called  it;  but 


THE  LAST  GAMBLE  283 

in  the  game  he  was  now  playing  such  a  method  would  be 
useless  for  obvious  reasons.  First  of  all,  knowing  his  op- 
ponent's cards  would  only  be  of  advantage  where  betting 
was  to  ensue.  Now  he  needed  the  clumsier,  if  more  sure, 
method  of  dealing  himself  a  hand.  And  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  adopt  it. 

"Poker"  John  dealt.  The  pot  was  not  opened. 
Lablache  again  dealt.  Still  the  hand  passed  without  the 
pot  being  opened.  The  next  time  John  dealt  Lablache 
opened  the  pot  and  was  promptly  beaten.  He  drew  to  two 
queens  and  missed.  John  drew  to  a  pair  of  sevens  and  got 
a  third.  The  game  was  one  all.  After  this  Lablache  won 
three  pots  in  succession  and  the  game  stood  four  —  one, 
in  favor  of  the  money-lender. 

The  old  rancher's  face  more  than  indicated  the  state  of 
the  game.  His  features  were  gray  and  drawn.  Already 
he  saw  his  girl  married  to  the  man  opposite  to  him.  For 
an  instant  his  weakness  led  him  to  think  of  refusing  to  play 
further  —  to  defy  Lablache  and  bid  him  do  his  worst.  Then 
he  remembered  that  the  girl  herself  had  insisted  that  he 
must  see  the  game  through  —  besides,  he  might  yet  win. 
He  forced  his  thoughts  to  the  coming  hand.  He  was  to 
deal. 

The  deal,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  successful. 
His  spirits  rose. 

Four  —  two. 

Lablache  took  up  the  cards  to  deal.  John  was  watching 
as  though  his  life  depended  upon  what  he  saw.  Lablache's 
clumsy  shuffle  annoyed  him.  The  lashless  eyes  of  the 
money-lender  were  bent  upon  the  cards,  but  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  observing  the  old  man's  attention.  This  un- 
usual attention  he  set  down  to  a  natural  excitement.  He 
had  not  the  smallest  idea  that  the  old  man  suspected  him. 
He  passed  the  cards  to  be  cut.  The  rancher  cut  them  care- 
lessly. He  had  a  natural  cut.  The  pack  was  nearly 
halved.  Lablache  had  prepared  for  this. 

The   hand   was   dealt,   and   the  money-lender  won  with 


234      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

three  aces,  all  of  which  he  had  drawn  in  a  five-card  draw. 
He  had  discarded  a  pair  of  nines  to  make  the  heavy  draw. 
It  was  clumsy,  but  he  had  been  forced  to  it.  The  position 
of  the  aces  in  the  pack  he  had  known,  and  —  well,  he  meant 
to  win. 

Five  —  two. 

The  clumsiness  of  that  deal  was  too  palpable.  Old  John 
suspected,  but  held  his  tongue.  His  anger  rose,  and  the 
drawn  face  flushed  with  the  suddenness  of  lightning.  He 
was  in  a  dangerous  mood.  Lablache  saw  the  flush,  and  a 
sudden  fear  gripped  his  heart.  He  passed  the  cards  to  the 
other,  and  then,  involuntarily,  his  hand  dropped  into  the 
right-hand  pocket  of  his  coat.  It  came  in  contact  with  his 
revolver  —  and  stayed  there. 

The  next  hand  passed  without  the  pot  being  opened  — 
and  the  next.  Lablache  was  a  little  cautious.  The  next 
deal  resulted  in  favor  of  the  rancher. 

Five  —  three. 

Lablache  again  took  the  cards.  This  time  he  meant  to 
get  his  hand  in  the  deal.  At  that  moment  the  money- 
lender would  have  given  a  cool  thousand  had  a  bottle  of 
whisky  been  on  the  table.  He  had  not  calculated  on  John 
being  sober.  He  shuffled  deliberately  and  offered  the  pack 
to  be  cut.  John  cut  in  the  same  careless  manner,  but  this 
time  he  did  it  purposely.  Lablache  picked  up  the  bottom 
half  of  the  cut.  There  was  a  terrible  silence  in  the  room, 
and  a  deadly  purpose  was  expressed  in  "  Poker "  John's 
eyes.  \ 

The  money-lender  began  to  deal.  In  an  instant  John 
was  on  his  feet  and  lurched  across  the  table.  His  hand  fell 
upon  the  first  card  which  Lablache  had  dealt  to  himself. 

"  The  ace  of  clubs,"  shouted  the  rancher,  his  eyes  blazing 
and  his  body  fairly  shaking  with  fury.  He  turned  the 
card  over.  It  was  the  ace  of  clubs. 

"Cheat!"  he  shouted. 

He  had  seen  the  card  at  the  bottom  of  the  pack  as  the 
other  had  ceased  to  shuffle. 


THE  LAST  GAMBLE  235 

There  was  an  instant's  thrilling  pause.  Then  Lablache's 
hand  flew  to  his  pocket.  He  had  heard  the  click  of  a  cock- 
ing revolver. 

For  the  moment  the  rancher's  old  spirit  rose  superior  to 
his  senile  debility. 

"  God  in  heaven !  And  this  is  how  you've  robbed  me, 
you  —  you  bastard !  " 

"  Poker  "  John's  seared  face  was  at  that  moment  the  face 
of  a  maniac.  He  literally  hurled  his  fury  at  the  money- 
lender, who  was  now  standing  confronting  him. 

"  It  is  the  last  time,  if  —  if  I  swing  for  it.  Prairie  law 
you  need,  and,  Hell  take  you,  you  shall  have  it !  " 

He  swung  himself  half  round.  Simultaneously  two  re- 
ports rang  out.  They  seemed  to  meet  in  one  deafening  peal, 
which  was  exaggerated  by  the  smallness  of  the  room.  Then 
all  was  silence. 

Lablache  stood  unmoved,  his  yellow  eyeballs  gleaming 
wickedly.  For  a  second  John  Allandale  swayed  while  his 
face  assumed  a  ghastly  hue.  Then  in  deathly  silence  he 
slowly  crumpled  up,  as  it  were.  No  sound  passed  his  lips 
and  he  sank  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor.  His  still  smoking 
pistol  dropped  beside  him  from  his  nerveless  fingers. 

The  rancher  had  intended  to  kill  Lablache,  but  the  subtle 
money-lender  had  been  too  quick.  The  lashless  eyes  watched 
the  deathly  fall  of  the  old  man.  There  was  no  expression 
in  them  but  that  of  vengeful  coldness.  He  was  accustomed 
to  the  unwritten  laws  of  the  prairie.  He  knew  that  he  had 
saved  his  life  by  a  hair's-breadth.  His  right  hand  was 
still  in  his  coat  pocket.  He  had  fired  through  the  cloth  of 
the  coat. 

Some  seconds  passed.  Still  Lablache  did  not  move. 
There  was  no  remorse  in  his  heart  —  only  annoyance.  He 
was  thinking  with  the  coolness  of  a  callous  nerve.  He  was 
swiftly  calculating  the  effect  of  the  catastrophe  as  regarded 
himself.  It  was  the  worst  thing  that  could  have  happened 
to  him.  Shooting  was  held  lightly  on  the  prairie,  he  knew, 
but —  Then  he  slowly  drew  his  pistol  from  his  pocket 


286     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

and  looked  thoughtfully  at  it.  His  caution  warned  him  of 
something.  He  withdrew  the  empty  cartridge  case  and 
cleaned  out  the  barrel.  Then  he  put  a  fresh  cartridge  in 
the  chamber  and  returned  the  pistol  to  his  pocket.  He  was 
very  deliberate,  and  displayed  no  emotion.  His  asthmatical 
breathing,  perhaps,  might  have  been  more  pronounced  than 
usual.  Then  he  gathered  up  the  cards  from  floor  and  table, 
and  wiped  out  the  score  upon  the  wall.  He  put  the  cards 
in  his  pocket.  After  that  he  stirred  the  body  of  his  old 
companion  with  his  foot.  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
prostrate  rancher.  Then  the  money-lender  gently  lowered 
himself  to  his  knees  and  placed  his  hand  over  his  victim's 
heart.  It  was  still.  John  Allandale  was  dead. 

It  was  now  for  the  first  time  that  Lablache  gave  any  sign 
of  emotion.  It  was  not  the  emotion  of  sorrow  —  merely 
fear  —  susperstitious  fear.  As  he  realized  that  the  other 
was  dead  his  head  suddenly  turned.  It  was  an  involuntary 
movement.  And  his  fishy  eyes  gazed  fearfully  behind  him. 
It  was  his  first  realization  of  guilt.  The  brand  of  Cain 
must  inevitably  carry  with  it  a  sense  of  horror  to  him  who 
falls  beneath  its  ban.  He  was  a  murderer  —  and  he  knew 
it. 

Now  his  movements  became  less  deliberate.  He  felt  that 
he  must  get  away  from  that  horrid  sight.  He  rose  swiftly, 
with  a  display  of  that  agility  which  the  unfortunate  Horrocks 
had  seen.  He  glanced  about  the  room  and  took  his  bearings. 
He  strode  to  the  lamp  and  put  it  out.  Then  he  groped  his 
way  to  the  window  and  took  down  his  bandanna;  stealthily, 
and  with  a  certain  horror,  he  felt  his  way  in  the  darkness 
to  the  door.  He  opened  it  and  passed  out. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SETTLING   THE   RECKONING 

JACZY  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  fifty-acre  pasture.  She  had 
been  standing  there  for  some  minutes.  The  night  was  quite 
dark;  there  was  no  moon.  Her  horse,  Nigger,  was  stand- 
ing hitched  to  one  of  the  fence  posts  a  few  yards  away  from 
her  and  inside  the  pasture.  The  girl  was  waiting  for 
"Lord"  Bill. 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night  as  she  stood 
listening.  A  wonderful  calmness  was  over  all.  From  her 
position  Jacky  had  seen  the  light  shining  through  the  win- 
dow of  the  implement  shed.  Now  the  shed  was  quite  dark 
—  the  window  had  been  covered.  She  knew  that  her  uncle 
and  Lablache  were  there.  She  was  growing  impatient. 

Every  now  and  then  she  would  turn  her  face  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  blackness  of  the  distant  end  of  the  field 
to  the  direction  of  the  settlement,  her  ears  straining  to  catch 
the  sound  of  her  dilatory  lover's  coming.  The  minutes 
passed  all  too  swiftly.  And  her  impatience  grew  and  found 
vent  in  irritable  movements  and  sighs  of  vexation. 

Suddenly  her  ears  caught  the  sound  of  distant  cries  com- 
ing from  the  settlement.  She  turned  in  the  direction.  A 
lurid  gleam  was  in  the  sky.  Then,  as  she  watched,  the 
glare  grew  brighter,  and  sparks  shot  up  in  a  great  wreathing 
cloud  of  smoke.  The  direction  was  unmistakable.  She 
knew  that  Lablache's  store  had  been  fired. 

"  Good,"  she  murmured,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  guess 
Bill'll  come  right  along  now.  I  wish  he'd  come.  They've 
been  in  that  shack  ten  minutes  or  more.  Why  don't  he 
come?  " 

The  glare  of  the  fire  fascinated  her,  and  her  eyes  re- 
mained glued  in  the  direction  of  it.  The  reflection  in  the 

287 


288      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

sky  was  widespread  and  she  knew  that  the  great  building 
must  be  gutted,  for  there  was  no  means  of  putting  the  fire 
out.  Then  her  thoughts  turned  to  Lablache,  and  she  smiled 
as  she  thought  of  the  surprise  awaiting  him.  The  sky  in 
the  distance  grew  brighter.  She  could  only  see  the  lurid 
reflection;  a  rising  ground  intervened  between  her  and  the 
settlement. 

Suddenly  against  the  very  heart  of  the  glare  the  figure  of 
a  horseman  coming  towards  her  was  silhouetted  as  he  rode 
over  the  rising  ground.  One  glance  sufficed  the  girl.  That 
tall,  thin  figure  was  unmistakable  —  her  lover  was  hastening 
towards  her.  She  turned  to  her  horse  and  unhitched  the 
reins  from  the  fence  post. 

Presently  Bill  came  up  and  dismounted.  He  led  Golden 
Eagle  through  the  gate.  The  greeting  was  an  almost  silent 
one  between  these  two.  Doubtless  their  thoughts  carried 
them  beyond  mere  greetings.  They  stood  for  a  second. 

"  Shall  we  ride?  "  said  Jacky,  inclining  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  shed. 

"No,  we  will  walk.     How  long  have  they  been  there?  " 

"  A  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  guess." 

"  Come  along,  then." 

They  walked  down  the  pasture  leading  their  two  horses. 

"  I  see  no  light,"  said  Bill,  looking  straight  ahead  of 
him. 

"  It  is  covered  —  the  window,  I  mean.  What  are  you 
going  to  do,  Bill?" 

The  man  laughed. 

"Lots  —  but  I  shall  be  guided  by  circumstances.  You 
must  remain  outside,  Jacky;  you  can  see  to  the  horses." 

"  P'r'aps." 

The  man  turned  sharply. 

"PVaps?" 

"  Yes,  one  never  knows.  I  guess  it's  no  use  fixing  things 
when  —  guided  by  circumstances." 

They  relapsed  into  silence  and  walked  steadily  on.  Half 
the  distance  was  covered  when  Jacky  halted. 


SETTLING  THE  RECKONING  289 

"Will  Golden  Eagle  stand  '  knee-haltering,'  Bill?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

"We'll  '  knee-halter  '  'em." 

Bill  stood  irresolute. 

"  It'll  be  better,  I  guess,"  the  girl  pursued.  "  We'll  be 
freer." 

"  All  right,"  replied  Bill.  "  But,"  after  a  pause,  "  I'd 
rather  you  didn't  come  further,  little  woman  —  there  may 
be  shooting — " 

"That's  so.     I  like  shootin'.     What's  that?" 

The  girl  had  secured  her  horse,  Bill  was  in  the  act  of 
securing  his.  Jacky  raised  her  hand  in  an  attitude  of  at- 
tention and  turned  her  face  to  windward.  Bill  stood  erect 
and  listened. 

"Ah!  —  it's  the  boys.     Baptiste  said  they  would  come." 

There  was  a  faint  rustling  of  grass  near  by.  Jacky's 
keen  ears  had  detected  the  stealing  sound  at  once.  To 
others  it  might  have  passed  for  the  effect  of  the  night  breeze. 

They  listened  for  a  few  seconds  longer,  then  Bill  turned 
to  the  girl. 

"  Come  —  the  horses  are  safe.  The  boys  will  not  show 
themselves.  I  fancy  they  are  here  to  watch  only  —  me." 

They  continued  on  towards  the  shed.  They  were  both 
wrapt  in  silent  thought.  Neither  was  prepared  for  what 
was  to  come.  They  were  still  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  building.  Its  outline  was  dimly  discernible  in 
the  darkness.  And,  too,  now  the  light  from  the  oil  lamp 
could  be  seen  dimly  shining  through  the  red  bandanna  which 
was  stretched  over  the  window. 

Now  the  sound  of  "  Poker  "  John's  voice  raised  in  anger 
reached  them.  They  stood  still  with  one  accord.  It  was 
astonishing  how  the  voice  traveled  all  that  distance.  He 
must  be  shouting.  A  sudden  fear  gripped  their  hearts. 
Bill  was  the  first  to  move.  With  a  whispered  "  Wait  here," 
he  ran  forward.  For  an  instant  Jacky  waited,  then,  on  a 
sudden  impulse,  she  followed  her  lover. 

The  girl  had  just  started.     Suddenly  the  sharp  report  of 


290     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

firearms  split  the  air.  She  came  up  with  Bill,  who  had 
paused  at  the  sound. 

"  Hustle,  Bill.     It's  murder,"  the  girl  panted. 

"  Yes,"  and  he  ran  forward  with  set  face  and  gleaming 
eyes. 

Murder  —  and  who  was  the  victim?  Bill  wondered,  and 
his  heart  misgave  him.  There  was  no  longer  any  sound  of 
voices.  The  rancher  had  been  silenced.  He  thought  of 
the  girl  behind  him.  Then  his  whole  mind  suddenly  cen- 
tered itself  upon  Lablache.  If  he  had  killed  the  rancher  no 
mercy  should  be  shown  to  him. 

Bill  was  rapidly  nearing  the  building,  and  it  was  wrapped 
in  an  ominous  silence. 

For  a  second  he  again  came  to  a  stand.  He  wanted  to 
make  sure.  He  could  hear  Jacky's  speeding  footfalls  from 
behind.  And  he  could  hear  the  stealthy  movements  of  those 
others.  These  were  the  only  sounds  that  reached  him.  He 
went  on  again.  He  came  to  the  building.  The  window 
was  directly  in  front  of  him.  He  tried  to  look  into  the 
room  but  the  handkerchief  effectually  hid  the  interior.  Sud- 
denly the  light  went  out.  He  knew  what  this  meant.  Turn- 
ing away  from  the  window  he  crept  towards  the  door. 
Jacky  had  come  up.  He  motioned  her  into  the  shadow. 
Then  he  waited. 

The  door  opened  and  a  great  figure  came  out.  It  was 
Lablache.  Even  in  the  darkness  Bill  recognized  him.  His 
heavy,  asthmatical  breathing  must  have  betrayed  the  money- 
lender if  there  had  been  no  other  means  of  identification. 

Lablache  stepped  out  on  to  the  prairie  utterly  unconscious 
of  the  figures  crouching  in  the  darkness.  He  stepped  heavily 
forward.  Four  steps  —  that  was  all.  A  silent  spring  —  an 
iron  grip  round  the  money-lender's  throat,  from  behind.  A 
short,  sharp  struggle  —  a  great  gasping  for  breath.  Then 
Lablache  reeled  backwards  and  fell  to  the  ground  with  Bill 
hanging  to  his  throat  like  some  tiger.  In  the  fall  the  money- 
lender's pistol  went  off.  There  was  a  sharp  report,  and 
the  bullet  tore  up  the  ground.  But  no  harm  was  done. 


SETTLING  THE  RECKONING  291 

Bill  held  on.  Then  came  the  swish  of  a  skirt.  Jacky  was 
at  her  lover's  side.  She  dragged  the  money-lender's  pistol 
from  his  pocket.  Then  Bill  let  go  his  hold  and  stood  pant- 
ing over  the  prostrate  man.  The  whole  thing  was  done  in 
silence.  No  word  was  spoken. 

Lablache  sucked  in  a  deep  whistling  breath.  His  eyes 
rolled  and  he  struggled  into  a  sitting  posture.  He  was 
gazing  into  the  muzzle  of  Bill's  pistol. 

"  Get  up!  "  The  stern  voice  was  unlike  Bill's,  but  there 
was  nothing  of  the  twang  of  Retief  about  it 

The  money-lender  stared,  but  did  not  move  —  neither  did 
he  speak.  Jacky  had  darted  into  the  hut.  She  had  gone 
to  light  the  lamp  and  learn  the  truth. 

"Get  up!"  The  chilling  command  forced  the  money- 
lender to  rise.  He  saw  before  him  the  tall,  thin  figure  of 
his  assailant. 

"  Retief!  "  he  gasped,  and  then  stood  speechless. 

Now  the  re-lighted  lamp  glowed  through  the  doorway. 
Bill  pointed  towards  the  door. 

"  Go  inside !  "  The  relentless  pistol  was  at  Lablache's 
head. 

"No  —  no!  Not  inside."  The  words  whistled  on  a 
gasping  breath. 

"Go  inside!" 

Cowed  and  fearful,  Lablache  obeyed  the  mandate. 

Bill  followed  the  money-lender  into  the  miserable  room. 
His  keen  eyes  took  in  the  scene  in  one  swift  glance.  He 
saw  Jacky  kneeling  beside  the  prostrate  form  of  her  uncle. 
She  was  not  weeping.  Her  beautiful  face  was  stonily  calm. 
She  was  just  looking  down  at  that  still  form,  that  drawn 
gray  face,  the  staring  eyes  and  dropped  jaw.  Bill  saw  and 
understood.  Lablache  might  expect  no  mercy. 

The  murderer  himself  was  now  looking  in  the  direction 
of  —  but  not  at  —  the  body  of  his  victim.  He  was  gazing 
with  eyes  which  expressed  horrified  amazement  at  the  sight 
of  the  crouching  figure  of  Jacky  Allandale.  He  was  trying 
to  fathom  the  meaning  of  her  association  with  Retief. 


292      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Bill  closed  the  door.  Now  he  came  forward  towards  the 
table,  always  keeping  Lablache  in  front  of  him. 

"Is  he  dead?"     Bill's  voice  was  solemn. 

Jacky  looked  up.  There  was  a  look  as  of  stone  in  her 
somber  eyes. 

"He  is  dead  — dead." 

"  Ah !  For  the  moment  we  will  leave  the  dead.  Come, 
let  us  deal  with  the  living.  It  is  time  for  a  final  reckoning." 

There  was  a  deadly  chill  in  the  tone  of  Bill's  voice  —  a 
chill  which  was  infinitely  more  dreadful  to  Lablache's  ears 
than  could  any  passionate  outburst  have  been. 

The  door  opened  gently.  No  one  noticed  it,  so  absorbed 
were  they  in  the  ghastly  matter  before  them.  Wider  the 
door  swung  and  several  dusky  faces  appeared  in  the  open- 
ing. 

The  money-lender  stood  motionless.  His  gaze  ignored 
the  dead.  He  watched  the  living.  He  wondered  what 
"  Lord  "  Bill's  preamble  portended.  He  shook  himself  like 
one  rousing  from  some  dreadful  nightmare.  He  summoned 
his  courage  and  tried  to  face  the  consequences  of  his  act 
with  an  outward  calm.  Struggle  as  he  might  a  deadly  fear 
was  ever  present. 

It  was  not  the  actual  fear  of  death  —  it  was  the  moral 
dread  of  something  intangible.  He  feared  at  that  moment 
not  that  which  was  to  come.  It  was  the  presence  of  the 
dusky-visaged  raider  and  —  the  girl.  He  feared  mostly  the 
icy  look  on  Jacky's  face.  However,  his  mind  was  quite 
clear.  He  was  watching  for  a  loophole  of  escape.  And  he 
lost  no  detail  of  the  scene  before  him. 

A  matter  which  puzzled  him  greatly  was  the  familiar 
voice  of  the  raider.  Retief,  as  he  knew  him,  spoke  with  a 
pronounced  accent,  but  now  he  only  heard  the  ordinary 
tones  of  an  Englishman. 

Bill  had  purposely  abandoned  his  exaggerated  Western 
drawl.  Now  he  removed  the  scarf  from  his  neck  and  pro- 
ceeded to  wipe  the  yellow  grease  from  his  face  and  neck. 
Lablache,  with  dismay  in  his  heart,  saw  the  white  skin  which 


SETTLING  THE  RECKONING  293 

had  been  concealed  beneath  the  paint.  The  truth  flashed 
upon  him  instantly.  And  before  Bill  had  had  time  to  re- 
move his  wig  his  name  had  passed  the  money-lender's  lips. 

"  Bunning-Ford  ?  "  he  gasped.  And  in  that  expression 
was  a  world  of  moral  fear. 

"  Yes,  Bunning-Ford,  come  to  settle  his  last  reckoning 
with  you." 

Bill  eyed  the  murderer  steadily  and  Lablache  felt  his  last 
grip  on  his  courage  relax.  A  terrible  fear  crept  upon  him 
as  his  courage  ebbed.  Slowly  Bill  turned  his  eyes  in  the 
direction  of  the  still  kneeling  Jacky.  The  girl's  eyes  met 
his,  and,  in  response  to  some  mute  understanding  which 
passed  between  them,  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

Bill  did  not  speak.  He  merely  looked  at  his  pistol. 
Jacky  spoke  as  if  answering  some  remark  of  his. 

"  Yes,  this  is  my  affair." 

Then  she  turned  upon  the  money-lender.  There  was  no 
wrath  in  her  face,  no  anger  in  her  tones;  only  that  horrid, 
stony  purpose  which  Lablache  dreaded.  He  wished  she 
would  hurl  invective  at  him.  He  felt  that  it  would  have 
been  better  so. 

"  The  death  which  you  have  dealt  to  that  poor  old  man 
is  too  good  for  you  —  murderer,"  she  said,  her  deep,  somber 
eyes  seeming  to  pass  through  and  through  the  mountain  of 
flesh  she  was  addressing.  "  I  take  small  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  he  had  no  time  to  suffer  bodily  pain.  You 
will  suffer  —  later."  Bill  gazed  at  her  wonderingly. 
"Liar!  —  cheat! — you  pollute  the  earth.  You  thought  to 
cozen  that  poor,  harmless  old  man  out  of  his  property  —  out 
of  me.  You  thought  to  ruin  him  as  you  have  ruined  others. 
Your  efforts  will  avail  you  nothing.  From  the  moment  Bill 
discovered  the  use  of  your  memorandum  pad  " —  Lablache 
started  — "  your  fate  was  sealed.  We  swore  to  confiscate 
your  property.  For  every  dollar  you  took  from  us  you  should 
pay  ten.  But  now  the  matter  is  different.  There  is  a 
justice  on  the  prairie  —  a  rough,  honest,  uncorruptible  jus- 
tice. And  that  justice  demands  your  life.  You  shall 


294     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

scourge  Foss  River  no  longer.  You  have  murdered.  You 
shall  die!—" 

Jacky  was  about  to  go  further  with  her  inexorable  de- 
nunciation when  the  door  of  the  shed  was  flung  wide,  and 
eight  Breeds,  headed  by  Gautier  and  Baptiste,  came  in. 
They  came  in  almost  noiselessly,  their  moccasined  feet  giv- 
ing out  scarcely  any  sound  upon  the  floor  of  the  room. 

"  Lord  "  Bill  turned,  startled  at  the  sudden  apparition. 
Jacky  hesitated.  Here  was  a  contingency  which  none  had 
reckoned  upon.  One  glance  at  those  dark,  cruel  faces 
warned  all  three  that  these  prairie  outcasts  had  been  silent 
witnesses  of  everything  that  had  taken  place.  It  was  a 
supreme  moment,  and  the  deadly  pallor  which  had  assumed 
a  leadenish  hue  on  Lablache's  face  told  of  one  who  appre- 
ciated the  horror  of  that  silent  coming. 

Baptiste  stepped  over  to  where  Jacky  stood.  He  looked 
at  her,  and  then  his  gaze  passed  to  the  dead  man  upon  the 
floor.  His  beady,  black  eyes  turned  fiercely  upon  the 
cowering  money-lender. 

"  Ow!  "  he  grunted.  And  his  tone  was  the  fierce  expres- 
sion of  an  Indian  roused  to  homicidal  purpose. 

Then  he  turned  back  to  Jacky,  and  the  look  on  his  face 
changed  to  one  of  sympathy  and  even  love. 

"  Not  you,  missie  —  and  the  white  man  —  no.  The 
prairie  is  the  land  of  the  Breed  and  his  forefathers  —  the 
Red  Man.  Guess  the  law  of  the  prairie'll  come  best  from 
such  as  he.  You  are  one  of  us,"  he  went  on,  surveying  the 
girl's  beautiful  face  in  open  admiration.  "  You've  allus 
been  mostly  one  of  us  —  but  I  take  it  y'are  too  white.  No, 
guess  you  ain't  goin'  ter  muck  yer  pretty  hands  wi'  the  filthy 
blood  of  yonder,"  pointing  to  Lablache.  "  These  things  is 
fur  the  likes  o'  us.  Jest  leave  this  skunk  to  us.  Death  is 
the  sentence,  and  death  he's  goin*  ter  git  —  an*  it'll  be  some- 
thin'  ter  remember  by  all  who  behold.  An'  the  story  shall 
go  down  to  our  children.  This  poor  dead  thing  was  our 
best  f rien' —  an'  he's  dead  —  murdered.  So,  this  is  a  mat- 
ter for  the  Breed." 


SETTLING  THE  RECKONING  295 

Then  the  half-breed  turned  away.  Seeing  the  chalk  upon 
the  floor  he  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

"  Let's  have  the  formalities.     It  is  but  just  — " 

Bill  suddenly  interrupted.  He  was  angry  at  the  inter- 
ference of  Baptiste. 

"Hold  on!" 

Baptiste  swung  round.  The  white  man  got  no  further. 
The  Breed  broke  in  upon  him  with  animal  ferocity. 

"Who  says  hold  on?  Peace,  white  man,  peace!  This 
is  for  us.  Dare  to  stop  us,  an* — " 

Jacky  sprang  between  her  lover  and  the  ferocious  half- 
breed. 

"  Bill,  leave  well  alone,"  she  said.  And  she  held  up  a 
warning  finger. 

She  knew  these  men,  of  a  race  to  which  she,  in  part, 
belonged.  As  well  baulk  a  tiger  of  its  prey.  She  knew 
that  if  Bill  interfered  his  life  would  pay  the  forfeit.  The 
sanguinary  lust  of  these  human  devils  once  aroused,  they 
cared  little  how  it  be  satisfied. 

Bill  turned  away  with  a  shrug,  and  he  was  startled  to  see 
that  he  had  been  noiselessly  surrounded  by  the  rest  of  the 
half-breeds.  Had  Jacky's  command  needed  support,  it 
would  have  found  it  in  this  ominous  movement. 

Fate  had  decreed  that  the  final  act  in  the  Foss  River 
drama  should  come  from  another  source  than  the  avenging 
hands  of  those  who  had  sealed  their  compact  in  Bad  Man's 
Hollow. 

Baptiste  turned  away  from  "  Lord  "  Bill,  and,  at  a  sign 
from  him,  Lablache  was  brought  round  to  the  other  side  of 
the  table  —  to  where  the  dead  rancher  was  lying.  Baptiste 
handed  him  the  chalk  and  then  pointed  to  the  wall,  on  which 
had  been  written  the  score  of  old  John's  last  gamble. 

"Write!  "  he  said,  turning  back  to  his  prisoner. 

Lablache  gazed  fearfully  around.  He  essayed  to  speak, 
but  his  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

"  Write  —  while  I  tell  you."  The  Breed  still  pointed  to 
the  wall. 


296      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

Lablache  held  out  the  chalk. 

"  I  kill  John  Allandale,"  dictated  Baptiste. 

Lablache  wrote. 

"Now,  sign.     So." 

Lablache  signed.  Jacky  and  Bill  stood  looking  on  silent 
and  wondering. 

"  Now,"  said  Baptiste,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  a  court 
official,  "the  execution  shall  take  place.  Lead  him  out!  " 

At  this  instant  Jacky  laid  her  hand  upon  the  half -breed's 
arm. 

"  What  —  what  is  it?  "  she  asked.  And  from  her  expres- 
sion something  of  the  stony  calmness  had  gone,  leaving  in 
its  place  a  look  of  wondering  not  untouched  with  horror. 

"The  Devil's  Keg!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   MAW   OF   THE   MUSKEG 

DOWN  the  sloping  shore  to  the  level  of  the  great  keg,  the 
party  of  Breeds  —  and  in  their  midst  the  doomed  money- 
lender —  made  their  way.  Jacky  and  "  Lord "  Bill,  on 
their  horses,  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  silent  cortege  moved  slowly  on,  out  on  to  the  oozing 
path  across  the  mire.  Lablache  was  now  beyond  human 
aid. 

The  right  and  wrong  of  their  determination  troubled  the 
Breeds  not  one  whit.  But  it  was  different  with  the  two 
white  people.  What  thoughts  Bill  had  upon  the  matter  he 
kept  to  himself.  He  certainly  felt  that  he  ought  to  inter- 
fere, but  he  knew  how  worse  than  useless  his  interference 
would  be.  Besides,  the  man  should  die.  The  law  of 
Judge  Lynch  was  the  only  law  for  such  as  he.  Let  that 
law  take  its  course.  Bill  would  have  preferred  the  stout 
tree  and  a  raw-hide  lariat.  But  —  and  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

Jacky  felt  more  deeply  upon  the  subject.  She  saw  the 
horror  in  all  its  truest  lights,  and  yet  she  had  flouted  her 
lover's  suggestion  that  she  should  not  witness  the  end.  Bad 
and  all  as  Lablache  was  —  cruel  as  was  his  nature,  mur- 
derer though  he  be,  surely  no  crime,  however  heinous,  could 
deserve  the  fate  to  which  he  was  going.  She  had  remon- 
strated—  urged  Baptiste  to  forego  his  wanton  cruelty,  to 
deal  out  justice  tempered  with  a  mercy  which  should  hurl 
the  money-lender  to  oblivion  without  suffering  —  with  scarce 
time  to  realize  the  happening.  Her  efforts  were  unavailing. 
As  well  try  to  turn  an  ape  from  its  mischief  —  a  man- 
eater  from  its  mania  for  human  blood.  The  inherent  love 

297 


298      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

of  cruelty  had  been  too  long  fostered  in  these  Breeds  of  Foss 
River.  Lablache  had  too  long  swayed  their  destinies  with 
his  ruthless  hand  of  extortion.  All  the  pent-up  hatred, 
stored  in  the  back  cells  of  memory,  was  now  let  loose.  For 
all  these  years  in  Foss  River  they  had  been  forced  to  look 
to  Lablache  as  the  ruler  of  their  destinies.  Was  he  not  the 
great  —  the  wealthy  man  of  the  place?  When  he  held  up 
his  finger  they  must  work  —  and  his  wage  was  the  wage  of 
a  dog.  When  money  was  scarce  among  them,  would  he  not 
drive  them  starving  from  his  great  store?  When  their  chil- 
dren and  women  were  sick,  would  he  not  refuse  them  drugs 
—  food  —  nourishment  of  any  sort,  unless  the  money  was 
down?  They  had  not  even  the  privilege  of  men  who  owned 
land.  There  was  no  credit  for  the  Breeds  —  outcasts. 
Baptiste  and  his  fellows  remembered  all  these  things.  Their 
time  had  come.  They  would  pay  Lablache  —  and  their 
score  of  interest  should  be  heavy. 

On  their  way  from  the  shed  to  the  muskeg  Lablache  had 
seen  the  reflection  of  the  fire  at  his  store  in  the  sky.  Gautier 
had  taken  devilish  satisfaction  in  telling  the  wretched  man 
of  what  had  been  done  —  mouthing  the  details  in  the  manner 
of  one  who  finds  joy  in  cruelty.  He  remembered  past  in- 
juries, and  reveled  in  the  money-lender's  agony. 

After  a  toilsome  journey  the  Breeds  halted  at  the  point 
where  the  path  divided  into  three.  Jacky  and  Bill  sat  on 
their  horses  and  watched  the  scene.  Then,  slowly,  some- 
thing of  Baptiste's  intention  was  borne  in  upon  them. 

Jacky  reached  out  and  touched  her  lover's  arm. 

"  Bill,  what  are  they  going  to  do?  " 

She  asked  the  question.  But  the  answer  was  already  with 
her.  Her  companion  remained  silent.  She  did  not  repeat 
her  question. 

Then  she  heard  Baptiste's  raucous  tones  as  he  issued  his 
commands. 

"Loose  his  hands!" 

Jacky  watched  Lablache's  face  in  the  dim  starlight.  It 
was  ghastly.  The  whole  figure  of  the  man  seemed  to  have 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MUSKEG  299 

shrunk.  The  wretched  man  stood  free,  and  yet  more  surely 
a  prisoner  than  any  criminal  in  a  condemned  cell. 

The  uncertain  light  of  the  stars  showed  only  the  dark  ex- 
panse of  the  mire  upon  all  sides.  In  the  distance,  ahead, 
the  mountains  were  vaguely  outlined  against  the  sky;  be- 
hind and  around,  nothing  but  that  awful  death-trap.  Jacky 
had  lived  all  her  life  beside  the  muskeg,  but  never,  until  that 
moment,  had  she  realized  the  awful  terror  of  its  presence. 

Now  Baptiste  again  commanded. 

"  Prepare  for  death." 

It  seemed  to  the  listening  girl  that  a  devilish  tone  of 
exultation  rang  in  his  words.  She  roused  herself  from  her 
fascinated  attention.  She  was  about  to  urge  her  horse  for- 
ward. But  a  thin,  powerful  hand  reached  out  and  gripped 
her  by  the  arm.  It  was  "  Lord  "  Bill.  His  hoarse  whisper 
sung  in  her  ears. 

"  Your  own  words  —  Leave  well  alone." 

And  she  allowed  her  horse  to  stand. 

Now  she  leaned  forward  in  her  saddle  and  rested  her 
elbows  upon  the  horn  in  front  of  her.  Again  she  heard 
Baptiste  speak.  He  seemed  to  be  in  sole  command. 

"  We'll  give  yer  a  chance  fur  yer  life  — " 

Again  the  fiendish  laugh  underlaid  the  words. 

"  It's  a  chance  of  a  dog  —  a  yellow  dog,"  he  pursued. 
Jacky  shuddered.  "  But  such  a  chance  is  too  good  fur  yer 
likes.  Look  —  look,  those  hills.  See  the  three  tall  peaks 
—  yes,  those  three,  taller  than  the  rest.  One  straight  in 
front;  one  to  the  right,  an'  one  away  to  the  left.  Guess  this 
path  divides  right  hyar  —  in  three,  an'  each  path  heads  for 
one  of  those  peaks.  Say,  jest  one  trail  crosses  the  keg  — 
one.  Savee?  The  others  end  sudden,  and  then  —  the  keg." 

The  full  horror  of  the  man's  meaning  now  became  plain 
to  the  girl.  She  heaved  a  great  gasp,  and  turned  to  Bill. 
Her  lover  signed  a  warning.  She  turned  again  to  the  scene 
before  her. 

"Now,  see  hyar,  you  scum,"  Baptiste  went  on.  "This 
is  yer  chance.  Choose  yer  path  and  foller  it.  Guess  yer 


300      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

can't  see  it  no  more  than  yer  ken  see  this  one  we're  on, 
but  you've  got  the  lay  of  it.  Guess  you'll  travel  the  path 
yer  choose  to  —  the  end.  If  yer  don't  move  —  an'  move 
mighty  slippy  —  you'll  be  dumped  headlong  into  the  muck. 
Ef  yer  git  on  to  the  right  path  an'  cross  the  keg  safe,  yer 
ken  sling  off  wi'  a  whole  skin.  Guess  you'll  fin'  it  a  ticklish 
job  —  mebbe  you'll  git  through.  But  I've  a  notion  yer 
won't.  Now,  take  yer  dog's  chance,  an'  remember,  its  death 
if  yer  don't,  anyway." 

The  man  ceased  speaking.  Jacky  saw  Lablache  shake 
his  great  head.  Then  something  made  him  look  at  the 
mountains  beyond.  There  were  the  three  dimly-outlined 
peaks.  They  were  clear  enough  to  guide  him.  Jacky, 
watching,  saw  the  expression  of  his  face  change.  It  was  as 
though  a  flicker  of  hope  had  risen  within  him.  Then  she 
saw  him  turn  and  eye  Baptiste.  He  seemed  to  read  in  that 
cruel,  dark  face  a  vengeful  purpose.  He  seemed  to  scent  a 
trick.  Presently  he  turned  again  to  the  hills. 

How  plainly  the  watching  girl  read  the  varying  emotions 
which  beset  him.  He  was  trying  to  face  this  chance  calmly, 
but  the  dark  expanse  of  the  surrounding  mire  wrung  his 
heart  with  terror.  He  could  not  choose,  and  yet  he  knew 
he  must  do  so  or  — 

Baptiste  spoke  again. 

"Choose!" 

Lablache  again  bent  his  eyes  upon  the  hills.  But  his 
lashless  lids  would  flicker,  and  his  vision  became  impaired. 
He  turned  to  the  Breed  with  an  imploring  gesture.  Baptiste 
made  no  movement.  His  relentless  expression  remained  un- 
changed. The  wretched  man  turned  away  to  the  rest  of  the 
Breeds. 

A  pistol  was  leveled  at  his  head  and  he  turned  back  to 
Baptiste.  The  only  comfort  he  obtained  was  a  monosyllabic 
command. 

"Choose!" 

"  God,  man,  I  can't."  Lablache  gasped  out  the  words 
which  seemed  literally  to  be  wrung  from  him. 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MUSKEG  301 

"  Choose!  "  The  inexorable  tone  sent  a  shudder  over  the 
distraught  man.  Even  in  the  starlight  the  expression  of 
the  villain's  face  was  hideous  to  behold. 

Baptiste's  voice  again  rang  out  on  the  still  night  air. 

"Move  him!" 

A  pistol  was  pushed  behind  his  ear. 

"  Do  y'  hear?  " 

"  Mercy  —  mercy !  "  cried  the  distraught  man.  But  he 
made  no  move. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause.  Then  the  loud  report  of 
the  threatening  pistol  rang  out.  It  had  been  fired  through 
the  lobe  of  his  ear. 

"Oh,  God!" 

The  exclamation  was  forced  from  Jacky.  The  torture  — 
the  horror  nearly  drove  her  wild.  She  lifted  her  reins  as 
though  to  ride  to  the  villain's  aid.  Then  something  —  some 
cruel  recollection  —  stayed  her.  She  remembered  her  uncle 
and  her  heart  hardened. 

The  merciless  torture  of  the  Breed  was  allowed  to  pass. 

To  the  wretched  victim  it  seemed  that  his  ear-drum  must 
be  split  for  the  shot  had  left  him  almost  stone  deaf.  The 
blood  trickled  from  the  wound.  He  almost  leapt  forward. 
Then  he  stood  all  of  a  tremble  as  he  felt  the  ground  shake 
beneath  him.  A  cold  sweat  poured  down  his  great  face. 

"  Choose!  "  Baptiste  followed  the  terror-stricken  man  up. 

"No  — no!  Don't  shoot!  Yes,  I'll  go  —  only  —  don't 
shoot." 

The  abject  cowardice  the  great  man  now  displayed  was 
almost  pitiable.  Bill's  lip  curled  in  disdain.  He  had  ex- 
pected that  this  man  would  have  shown  a  bold  front. 

He  had  always  believed  Lablache  to  be,  at  least,  a  man 
of  courage.  But  he  did  not  allow  for  the  circumstances  — 
the  surroundings.  Lablache  on  the  safe  ground  of  the  prairie 
would  have  faced  disaster  very  differently.  The  thought  of 
that  sucking  mire  was  too  terrible.  The  oily  maw  of  that 
death-trap  was  a  thing  to  strike  horror  into  the  bravest 
heart. 


302      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

44  Which  path  ?  "  Baptiste  spoke,  waving  his  hand  in  the 
direction  of  the  mountains. 

Lablache  moved  cautiously  forward,  testing  the  ground 
with  his  foot  as  he  went.  Then  he  paused  again  and  eyed 
the  mountains. 

44  The  right  path,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  guttural  whisper. 

44  Then  start."  The  words  rang  out  cuttingly  upon  the 
night  air. 

Lablache  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  distant  peak  of  the 
mountain  which  was  to  be  his  guide.  He  advanced  slowly. 
The  Breeds  followed,  Jacky  and  Bill  bringing  up  the  rear. 
The  ground  seemed  firm  and  the  money-lender  moved 
heavily  forward.  His  breath  came  in  gasps.  He  was  pant- 
ing, not  with  exertion,  but  with  terror.  He  could  not  test 
the  ground  until  his  weight  was  upon  it.  An  outstretched 
foot  pressed  on  the  grassy  path  told  him  nothing.  He  knew 
that  the  crust  would  hold  until  the  weight  of  his  body  was 
upon  it.  With  every  successful  step  his  terror  increased. 
What  would  the  next  bring  forth? 

His  agony  of  mind  was  awful. 

He  covered  about  ten  yards  in  this  way.  The  sweat 
poured  from  him.  His  clothes  stuck  to  him.  He  paused 
for  a  second  and  took  fresh  bearings.  He  turned  his  head 
and  looked  into  the  muzzle  of  Baptiste's  revolver.  He 
shuddered  and  turned  again  to  the  mountains.  He  pressed 
forward.  Still  the  ground  was  firm.  But  this  gave  him 
no  hope.  Suddenly  a  frightful  horror  swept  over  him.  It 
was  something  fresh;  he  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  The 
fact  was  strange,  but  it  was  so.  The  path  —  had  he  taken 
the  wrong  one?  He  had  made  his  selection  at  haphazard 
and  he  knew  that  there  was  no  turning  back.  Baptiste  had 
said  so  and  he  had  seen  his  resolve  written  in  his  face.  A 
conviction  stole  over  him  that  he  was  on  the  wrong  path. 
He  knew  he  was.  He  must  be.  Of  course  it  was  only 
natural.  The  center  path  must  be  the  main  one.  He  stood 
still.  He  could  have  cried  out  in  his  mental  agony.  Again 
he  turned  —  and  saw  the  pistol. 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MUSKEG  303 

He  put  his  foot  out.  The  ground  trembled  at  his  touch. 
He  drew  back  with  a  gurgling  cry.  He  turned  and  tried 
another  spot.  It  was  firm  until  his  weight  rested  upon  it. 
Then  it  shook.  He  sought  to  return  to  the  spot  he  had 
left.  But  now  he  could  not  be  sure.  His  mind  was  un- 
certain. Suddenly  he  gave  a  jump.  He  felt  the  ground 
solid  beneath  him  as  he  alighted.  His  face  was  streaming. 
He  passed  his  hand  across  it  in  a  dazed  way.  His  terror 
increased  a  hundredfold.  Now  he  endeavored  to  take  his 
bearings  afresh.  He  looked  out  at  the  three  mountains. 
The  right  one  —  yes,  that  was  it.  The  right  one.  He  saw 
the  peak,  and  made  another  step  forward.  The  path  held. 
Another  step  and  his  foot  went  through.  He  drew  back 
with  a  cry.  He  tripped  and  fell  heavily.  The  ground 
shook  under  him  and  he  lay  still,  moaning. 

Baptiste's  voice  roused  him  and  urged  him  on. 

"  Git  on,  you  skunk,"  he  said.     "  Go  to  yer  death." 

Lablache  sat  up  and  looked  about.  He  felt  dazed.  He 
knew  he  must  go  on.  Death  —  death  which  ever  way  he 
turned.  God!  did  ever  a  man  suffer  so?  The  name  of 
John  Allandale  came  to  his  mind  and  he  gazed  wildly 
about,  fancying  some  one  had  whispered  it  to  him  in  an- 
swer to  his  thoughts.  He  stood  up.  He  took  another  step 
forward  with  reckless  haste.  He  remembered  the  pistol  be- 
hind him.  The  ground  seemed  to  shake  under  him.  His 
distorted  fancy  was  playing  tricks  with  him.  Another  step. 
Yes,  the  ground  was  solid  —  no,  it  shook.  The  weight  of 
his  body  came  down  on  the  spot.  His  foot  went  through. 
He  hurled  himself  backwards  again  and  clutched  wildly  at 
the  ground.  He  shuddered  and  cried  out.  Again  came 
Baptiste's  voice. 

"Git  on,  or—" 

The  distraught  man  struggled  to  his  feet.  He  was  be- 
coming delirious  with  terror.  He  stepped  forward  again. 
The  ground  seemed  solid  and  he  laughed  a  horrid,  wild 
laugh.  Another  step  and  another.  He  paused,  breathing 
hard  Then  he  started  to  mutter, — 


304     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"  On  —  on.  Yes,  on  again  or  they'll  have  me.  The  path 
—  this  is  the  right  one.  I'll  cheat  'em  yet." 

He  strode  out  boldly.  His  foot  sank  in  something  soft. 
He  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  Another  step  and  his  foot 
sank  again  in  the  reeking  muck.  Suddenly  he  seemed  to 
realize.  He  threw  himself  back  and  obtained  a  foothold. 
He  stood  trembling.  He  turned  and  tried  another  direc- 
tion. Again  he  sank.  Again  he  drew  back.  His  knees 
tottered  and  he  feared  to  move.  Suddenly  a  ring  of  metal 
pressed  against  his  head  from  behind.  In  a  state  of  panic 
he  stepped  forward  on  the  shaking  ground.  It  held.  He 
paused,  then  stepped  again,  his  foot  coming  down  on  a 
reedy  tuft.  It  shook,  but  still  held.  He  took  another  step. 
His  foot  sunk  quickly,  till  the  soft  muck  oozed  round  his 
ankle.  He  cried  out  in  terror  and  turned  to  come  back. 

Baptiste  stood  with  leveled  pistol. 

"  On  —  on,  you  gopher.  Turn  again  an'  I  wing  yer. 
On,  you  bastard.  You've  chosen  yer  path,  keep  to  it." 

"  Mercy  —  I'm  sinking." 

"  Git  on  —  not  one  step  back." 

Lablache  struggled  to  release  his  sinking  limb.  By  a 
great  effort  he  drew  it  out  only  to  plunge  it  into  another 
yielding  spot.  Again  he  struggled,  and  in  his  struggle  his 
other  foot  slipped  from  its  reedy  hold.  It,  too,  sank.  With 
a  terrible  cry  he  plunged  forward.  He  lurched  heavily  as 
he  sought  to  drag  his  feet  from  the  viscid  muck.  At  every 
effort  he  sank  deeper.  At  last  he  hurled  himself  full  length 
upon  the  surface  of  the  reeking  mire.  He  cried  aloud,  but 
no  one  answered  him.  Under  his  body  he  felt  the  yielding 
crust  cave.  He  clutched  at  the  surface  grass,  but  he  only 
plucked  the  tufts  from  their  roots.  They  gave  him  no  hold. 

The  silent  figures  on  the  path  watched  his  death-struggle. 
It  was  ghastly  —  horrible.  The  expression  of  their  faces 
was  fiendish.  They  watched  with  positive  joy.  There  was 
no  pity  in  the  hearts  of  the  Breeds. 

They  hearkened  to  the  man's  piteous  cries  with  ears  deaf- 
ened to  all  entreaty.  They  simply  watched  —  watched  and 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MUSKEG  305 

reveled  in  the  watching  —  for  the  terrible  end  which  must 
come. 

Already  the  murderer's  vast  proportions  were  half  buried 
in  the  slimy  ooze,  and,  at  every  fresh  effort  to  save  himself, 
he  sank  deeper.  But  the  death  which  the  Breeds  awaited 
was  slow  to  come.  Slow  —  slow.  And  so  they  would  have 
it. 

Like  some  hungry  monster  the  muskeg  mouths  its  victims 
with  oozing  saliva,  supping  slowly,  and  seemingly  revels  in 
anticipation  of  the  delicate  morsel  of  human  flesh.  The 
watchers  heard  the  gurgling  mud,  like  to  a  great  tongue  lick- 
ing, as  it  wrapped  round  the  doomed  man's  body,  sucking 
him  down,  down.  The  clutch  of  the  keg  seemed  like  some- 
thing alive;  something  so  all-powerful  —  like  the  twining 
feelers  of  the  giant  cuttlefish.  Slowly  they  saw  the  doomed 
man's  legs  disappear,  and  already  the  slimy  muck  was 
above  his  middle. 

The  minutes  dragged  along  —  the  black  slime  rose  —  it 
was  at  Lablache's  breast  His  arms  were  outspread,  and, 
for  the  moment,  they  offered  resistance  to  the  sucking 
strength  of  the  mud.  But  the  resistance  was  only  mo- 
mentary. Down,  down  he  was  drawn  into  that  insatiable 
maw.  The  dying  man's  arms  canted  upwards  as  his  shoul- 
ders were  dragged  under. 

He  cried  —  he  shrieked  —  he  raved.  Down,  down  he 
went  —  the  mud  touched  his  chin.  His  head  was  thrown 
back  in  one  last  wild  scream.  The  watchers  saw  the  staring 
eyes  —  the  wide-stretched,  lashless  lids. 

His  cries  died  down  into  gurgles  as  the  mud  oozed  over 
into  his  gaping  mouth.  Down  he  went  to  his  dreadful 
death,  until  his  nostrils  filled  and  only  his  awful  eyes  re- 
mained above  the  muck.  The  watchers  did  not  move. 
Slowly  —  slowly  and  silently  now  —  the  last  of  him  dis- 
appeared. Once  his  head  was  below  the  surface  his  limp- 
ened  arms  followed  swiftly. 

The  Breeds  reluctantly  turned  back  from  the  horrid 
spectacle.  The  fearful  torture  was  done.  For  a  few  mo- 


306     THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

ments  no  words  were  spoken.  Then,  at  last,  it  was  Baptiste 
who  broke  the  silence.  He  looked  round  on  the  passion- 
distorted  faces  about  him.  Then  his  beady  eyes  rested  on 
the  horrified  faces  of  Jacky  and  her  lover.  He  eyed  them, 
and  presently  his  gaze  dropped,  and  he  turned  back  to  his 
countrymen.  He  merely  said  two  words. 

"Scatter,  boys." 

The  tragedy  was  over  and  his  words  brought  down  the 
curtain.  In  silence  the  half-breeds  turned  and  slunk  away. 
They  passed  back  over  their  tracks.  Each  knew  that  the 
sooner  he  reached  the  camp  again,  the  sooner  would  safety 
be  assured.  As  the  last  man  departed  Baptiste  stepped  up 
to  Jacky  and  Bill,  who  had  not  moved  from  their  positions. 

"  Guess  there's  no  cause  to  complain  o'  yer  friends,"  he 
said,  addressing  Jacky,  and  leering  up  into  her  white,  set 
face. 

The  girl  shivered  and  turned  away  with  a  look  of  utter 
loathing  on  her  face.  She  appealed  to  her  lover. 

"  Bill  —Bill,  send  him  away.     It's  — it's  too  horrible." 

"  Lord  "  Bill  fixed  his  gray  eyes  on  the  Breed. 

"Scatter  —  we've  had  enough." 

"Eh?     Guess  yer  per-tickler." 

There  was  a  truculent  tone  in  Baptiste's  voice. 

Bill's  revolver  was  out  like  lightning. 

"Scatter!" 

And  in  that  word  Baptiste  realized  his  dismissal. 

His  face  looked  very  ugly,  but  he  moved  off  under  the 
covering  muzzle  of  the  white  man's  pistol. 

Bill  watched  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
turned  to  Jacky. 

"Well?    Which  way?" 

Jacky  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She  gazed  at  the 
mountains.  She  shivered.  It  might  have  been  the  chill 
morning  air  —  it  might  have  been  emotion.  Then  she 
looked  back  in  the  direction  of  Foss  River.  Dawn  was 
already  streaking  the  horizon. 

She   sighed  like   a   weary  child,   and  looked  helplessly 


THE  MAW  OF  THE  MUSKEG  307 

about.  Her  lover  had  never  seen  her  vigorous  nature  so 
badly  affected.  But  he  realized  the  terrors  she  had  been 
through. 

Bill  looked  at  her. 

"Well?" 

"Yonder."  She  pointed  to  the  distant  hills.  "  Foss 
River  is  no  longer  possible." 

"The  day  that  sees  Lablache—" 

"Yes  — come." 

Bill  gazed  lingeringly  in  the  direction  of  the  settlement. 
Jacky  followed  his  gaze.  Then  she  touched  Nigger's  flank 
with  her  spur.  Golden  Eagle  cocked  his  ears,  his  head  was 
turned  towards  Bad  Man's  Hollow.  He  needed  no  urging. 
He  felt  that  he  was  going  home. 

Together  they  rode  away  across  the  keg. 

Dr.  Abbot  had  been  up  all  night,  as  had  most  of  Foss 
River.  Everybody  had  been  present  at  the  fire.  It  was 
daylight  when  it  was  discovered  that  John  Allandale  and 
Jacky  were  missing.  Lablache  had  been  missed,  but  this 
had  not  so  much  interested  people.  They  thought  of  Retief 
and  waited  for  daylight. 

Silas  brought  the  news  of  "Poker"  John's  absence  — 
also  his  niece's.  Immediately  was  a  "  hue  and  cry  "  taken 
up.  Foss  River  bustled  in  search. 

It  was  noon  before  the  rancher  was  found.  Doctor  Ab- 
bot and  Silas  had  set  out  in  search  together.  The  fifty- 
acre  pasture  was  Silas's  suggestion.  Dr.  Abbot  did  not  re- 
member the  implement  shed. 

They  found  the  old  man's  body.  They  found  Lablache's 
confession.  Silas  could  not  read.  He  took  no  stock  in 
the  writing  and  thought  only  of  the  dead  man.  The  doctor 
had  read,  but  he  said  nothing.  He  dispatched  Silas  for 
help. 

When  the  foreman  had  gone  Dr.  Abbot  picked  up  the 
black  wig  which  Bill  had  used.  He  stood  looking  at  it  for 
a  while,  then  he  put  it  carefully  into  his  pocket. 


308      THE  STORY  OF  THE  FOSS  RIVER  RANCH 

"Ah!  I  think  I  understand  something  now,"  he  said, 
slowly  fingering  the  wig.  "  Um  —  yes.  I'll  burn  it  when  I 
get  home." 

Silas  returned  with  help.  John  Allandale  was  buried 
quietly  in  the  little  piece  of  ground  set  aside  for  such  pur- 
poses. The  truth  of  the  disappearance  of  Lablache,  Jacky 
and  "  Lord  "  Bill  was  never  known  outside  of  the  doctor's 
house. 

How  much  or  how  little  Dr.  Abbot  knew  would  be  hard  to 
tell.  Possibly  he  guessed  a  great  deal.  Anyway,  whatever 
he  knew  was  doubtless  shared  with  "  Aunt "  Margaret. 
For  when  the  doctor  had  a  secret  it  did  not  remain  his  long. 
"  Aunt "  Margaret  had  a  way  with  her.  However,  she  was 
the  very  essence  of  discretion. 

Foss  River  settled  down  after  its  nine  days'  wonder.  It 
was  astonishing  how  quickly  the  affair  was  forgotten.  But 
then,  Foss  River  was  not  yet  civilized.  Its  people  had  not 
yet  learned  to  worry  too  much  over  their  neighbors'  affairs. 


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Hidden  Children,  The Robert  W.  Chambers 

Highway  of  Fate,  The Rosa  N.  Carey 

Homesteaders,  The Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles 

Hoosier  Volunteer,  The Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles 

Hopalong  Cassidy Clarence  E.  Mulford 

House  of  Happiness,  The Kate  Langley  Bosher 

House  of  the  Whispering  Pines A.  K.  Green 

Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker 5.  W.  Mitchell.  M.D. 

Husbands  of  Edith,  The George  Barr  McCitcheon 

Illustrious  Prince,  The E  Phillips  Oppenheim 

Imposter,  The John  Reed  Scott 

In  Defiance  of  the  King Chauncey  C.  Holchkiss 

Indifference  of  Juliet,  The Grace  S.  Richmond 

Inez  (111.  Ed.) Augusta  J.  Evans 

Infelice Augusta  Evans  Wilson 

Initials  Only Anna  Katharine  Green 

Innocent Marie  Corelli 

Intriguers,  The Harold  Bindloss 

Iron  Trail,  The Rex  Beach 

Iron  Woman,  The Margaret  Deland 

Ishmael  (111.) Mrs.  Southworth 

Island  of  Regeneration,  The Cyrus  Townsend  Brady 

Island  of  the  Stairs,  The Cyrus  Townsend  Brady 

"aponette Robert  W.  Chambers 

ane  Cable George  Barr  McCutcheon 

eanne  of  the  Marshes E.  Phillips  Oppenheim 

ennie  Gerhardt Theodore  Dreiser 

oyful  Heatherby Payne  Erskine 

ude  the  Obscure Thomas  Hardy 

udgment  House,  The .Gilbert  Parker 

•Ceith  of  the  Border Randall  Parrish 

Kent  Knowles:  "Quahaug" Joseph  C.  Lincoln 

Kingsmead Bettina  Von  Hutten 

Knave  of  Diamonds.  The Ethel  M.  Dell 

Ladder  of  Swords,  A Gilbert  Parker 

Lady  and  the  Pirate,  The Emerson  Hough 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson 

Lady  Merton,  Colonist Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 

Land  of  Long  Ago,  The Eliza  Calvert  Hall 

Last  Shot,  The Frederick  N.  Palmer 


YB  73408 


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